


A Bug in the Machine

by Brennah_K



Category: Person of Interest (TV), The Equalizer (1985)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Daemons, Daemons, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, x-over
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-01
Updated: 2017-06-22
Packaged: 2018-05-30 13:49:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 20,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6426373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brennah_K/pseuds/Brennah_K
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Harold Finch was born, his father quickly recognized the fear and prejudice his son - born with a daemon that couldn't be identified or found - would face if he didn't act quickly; so his father went out to his barn and picked the tamest of the household wrens he'd cared for through the winter and brought it to his son's bedside. </p><p>From that time on, Harold has kept one generation after another of that wren's descendants tamed to ride his shoulder or in his pocket and never let anyone get close enough to ever doubt the nature of his daemon... until he hired former CIA-NCS officer, John Reese - a broken, former-assassin - trained to work detached from his daemon, a creature who barely recognizes the man that Reese has become and who prefers to stay remote from the sad shell her counterpart has become.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In multitasking computer operating systems, a daemon (/ˈdiːmən/ or /ˈdeɪmən/)[1] is a computer program that runs as a background process, rather than being under the direct control of an interactive user. 
> 
> _(https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Daemon_(computing)#Creation)_

"I recognize, Mr. Reese, that there's a disparity between how much I know about you and how much you know about me. I know you'll be trying to close that gap as quickly as possible. But I should tell you... I'm a really private person. _(pilot)_ " Harold warned, nervously cupping his hand over the wren sitting on his shoulder and gently lifting it down to tuck it into his pocket, hiding it away from the other man's sharp focused gaze. 

From a distance, they both heard the discontented cry of a falcon, but only Reese reacted - flinching as his daemon broadcast the feelings he was hardly willing to admit even having.

"What ever you say, Harold," Reese answered dryly, pretending the distant peregrine's cry had not even happened. The agent's monotone use of his (true) christian name somehow managed to sound vastly more detached than often casual use of his fictitious surname. 

"Mr. Reese... John..." Harold tried to appeal, uncertain what to say, but equally unwilling to leave Mr. Reese's obvious pain unaddressed.

"It's fine, Finch. It's fine. We're all entitled to our little secrets." Reese's monotone dismissed Harold as he turned and retreated.

As the security cameras picked up Mr. Reese, Harold finally turned to his daemon and questioned, "How can we keep going on in this manner? You know Mr. Reese will not be able to give up his pursuit of this." 

In half the span of a second, the power light of his lap top blinked one long blink then a pause, one short and a pause, twice long with a pause, twice long again with a pause, a double long pause, four short with a pause, two short and a pause, two long and a pause, followed quickly by short long short long short long blinks: T-E-L-L -- H-I-M.

"Tell him? How can you even think that?" 

"H-e -- i-s -- d-i-f-f-e-r-e-n-t--." The machine responded in morse-code flashes.

"Which serves to make him more dangerous, not less."

"Y-o-u -- t-r-u-s-t -- h-i-m.' 

"For a certain measure of trust, yes." Harold acceded. 

"W-i-t-h -- y-o-u-r -- l-i-f-e."

"With mine, yes," Harold agreed, knowing it was futile to even attempt to lie to his daemon, reputedly, the other half of his soul, although Harold wasn't entirely certain that he fully believed that to be true. ..."Not yours." 

"T-h-e-y -- a-r-e -- t-h-e -- s-a-m-e."

Although Harold had acknowledged early on that his and the energy which currently inhabited his latest construct - the so-called machine, sys-d's soul, were linked (an acknowledgement that came almost simultaneously with the understanding that daemons 'always passed' when their human counter parts eventually died); he had never fully agreed or accepted that it had to be that way, and from his earliest moments of structured thinking (at approximately 38.5 months of age), Harold had contemplated, studied, experimented, and invented different versions of automations to house and power sys-d's energy when the eventuality of his death finally occurred.

"For now." Harold hedged in his agreement, turning away from his laptop to avoid the argument he knew was coming. Sys'd might wish to dispute his choices in doing so, but could not dispute that he was so very, very close to reaching his goal: giving Sys'd a life of her own, with a purpose and generations of companions to care for - long after he slipped the mortal coil.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Traditionally, the process names of a daemon end with the letter d, for clarification that the process is, in fact, a daemon, and for differentiation between a daemon and a normal computer program. 
> 
> (https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Daemon_(computing))

2009//1999//1989//1979//1969// **1959**

"Good night, Harold," Kenneth coaxed his infant son, stroking a gentle finger across his son's forehead hoping the child would soon drift off. 

His wife Catherine, the only other person to know of Kenneth's farce to protect his son, had yet to even come into Harold's room - all of nine days after Harold's birth and that with Harold being their first, the child that they had been hoping and praying to have for close to ten years.

Stricken by a severe bout of post-partum depression that was only complicated by her uncertainty and discomfort at even being in Harold's presence without seeing an infantile daemon snuggled along side, Catherine had further declined into morose silence each of the times that Kenneth had brought Harold to her for feeding, while her marmoset daemon, Urscio crawl under the nearest chair or bed until Kenneth took the fed and usually sleeping child away.

By the third week, Kenneth had finally convinced her to confide in him, only to be shocked to silence with the revelation of her conviction that she'd born a soulless child, the type of abomination that had fed the horror movie industry for years with tales of near demonic children and psychopaths - warped souls who'd grown up without the calming and cathartic influences of the other half of their souls. He had tried to convince her that Harold was nothing of the sort, and nearly begged her to spend time with the child and see that the child's eyes, even weeks old, sparkled with mirth and happiness whenever Kenneth spoke to him; that Harold burbled in welcome whenever he came near; that he snuggled in and cooed into Kenneth's neck after being burped, and curled tiny fingers around Kenneth's thumb whenever it was in reach; that she just needed to get to know him and she'd see she was just being spooked by foolish superstitions.

He himself didn't know what to think about his son's seemingly absent daemon and had discussed the matter frequently with his own daemon, Shanna - a small winter wren. Shanna hadn't been able to offer much clarification - outside of ruling out his one half-dreaded speculation that Harold's daemon might have been simply too small to see as an insect. It was one of the most common fears of most parents - as children with insect daemons were often frail and lead unusually short lives beset with difficulties like ocd and autism. 

/No/ Shanna had quickly assured him, /she's is not a bug. Her form is not ... not so settled as an insect...It is.../ Kenneth could feel her struggle for the right words and finally when she had to give up as the words just wouldn't come. 

"It's alright, Shanna," he cooed, reaching up to stroke a finger down the top of her head, comforted by the fact that she had at least felt Harold's daemon form.

As the tinkling melody of the mobile, Kenneth couldn't remember starting, faded out, Kenneth glanced down - smiling at his peacefully sleeping son.

 

2009//1999//1989// **1979** //1969//1959

"I'm sorry, Harold." Sheriff Lemuel Svenson offered as much sympathy as he felt he could to his friend's very reserved son, with a light squeeze on the boy's shoulder, nodding in approval as the small wren peaked it's head out of the boy's pocket to offer comfort. 

It was a hard thing to deal with a parent's decline, Svenson knew, having seen it so many times both as a part of his job and his home life as his wife's parents fallen into ill health over the past few years. But for Kenny's son to have to deal with it so young, and alone, having lost his mom just months after being born - was a true shame.

As smart and mature as the boy had always been, he had still only just turned twenty. One of the reasons why Lemuel had asked his wife to look into the sanitarium, how much it would cost, and what Kenny's insurance plan would cover. It wasn't enough, but as much as he could do at the moment. 

"Thank you, Sheriff." The young man answered, folding the brochure and expense summary that Mary had prepared for him, in small crisp gestures, before tucking it neatly away into an inside pocket and looking back up expectantly. "May I see my father, now?"

"He's had a long night, Harold. My deputy found him wandering out by route 40 just before dawn, without a jacket or boots, and chilled to the bone. He's catching up on some sleep..."

"In a cell?" the boy interrupted, clearly distressed. 

"No, there was no need for that. We have a couple of cots in the back office for when the snow starts getting deep and we need to have someone here to answer the radio in case of any emergencies. Your pop's bundled up nice and warm and catching some Zzz's. Why don't you head over to the Mavis's, get something to eat, and read through those papers from Mary? Give yourself some time to think."

"Thank you, Sir." Harold answered, but before he could finish, Lemuel knew that he was going to decline. He and his father both had always been like that - wrens - to the core, quick to come out and see what was happening, and help when and where they could, but just as quick to hole up in their homes when problems came visiting them. 

 

2009//1999//1989//1979// **1969** //1959

"What'cha doin there, Son?" Kenneth asked, watching in amusement as his son stared transfixed at the blinking lights of another gizmo he'd created.

"I'm trying to determine the lowest voltage needed to make the emitter conduct the sufficient specified current required to light a small diode."

"Well, that's a lot of words for making the light blink, but I have to say I'm impressed with them, even if I didn't understand some of them... or most of them.... Are you practicing morse code? When did you learn that?" 

"Oh, I've known for ... a while now." 

"The things you learn. Well pack that away for a little bit, could you? I'd like your help with something." 

"Sure, Dad, I'll be right there." Harold answered back and folded the wires to his transistor set up to tuck in the same pocket his wren usually sat in. 

"Easy there, Harold. Sys'd might not like having a bunch of wires dropped on her head.' 

When the wren popped her head out though, she seemed none the worse for wear, and darted back in to study the still blinking light, only hinted at by the slight red pulse at the edge of his son's pocket. He hadn't mentioned it, but wouldn't be surprised if his son checked back on his experiment to find she'd pecked the wire assembly to bits. His son's natural daemon might not be a wren, but they certainly shared the tendency to peck things apart, fiddling with wires and such. 

Ah, well. Harold would learn, and in the long run, it probably wasn't a bad idea at all to encourage such similarities. Harold had always been such a smart child and had seemed to understand right from the start not to say anything about his daemon being different, but one could never tell when someone outside their little clutch would spot the differences and figure it out on their own. Perhaps if he could coax Harold into learning and adopting some of those mannerisms it would help to deflect outsiders attention.

"...Dad..." Harold was staring at him expectantly as Kenneth set aside his wool-gathering to realize that Harold didn't just look expectant, but concerned as well.

"What...Oh, sorry.. just got lost in my thoughts for a minute there."

 

2009// **1999** //1989//1979//1969//1959

"Nathan," Harold sighed as he read from Nathan's expression that he was about to bring up _the argument_ argument again. "Must I really repeat myself, yet another time? I am perfectly content with my perceived role in ITF; I truly do not want to step into the limelight of our corporate ventures, and before you even suggest it, I did not ask you to be the so-called face of ITF to protect my reputation in the event our venture failed. I have always had complete confidence in both you and ITF."

Harold knew he had surmised correctly when Ravi, Nathan's daemon, a cider brown water spaniel dropped to its stomach with a huff and looked away.

"But it's ridiculous, Harold, that you are not getting the credit you deserve; you are the true mind and power behind this company but no one - not even in that latch-key department of yours- knows your worth to the company. That little twerp of a manager you're pretending to work under submitted a proposal to upgrade the skills of the IT department by ending the contract of any IT staff whose degree is older than five years and filling the positions with new grads. Your name was on the top of his list."

"While I can see the logic to his argument I do hope that you didn't agree to his proposal."

"Of course not, but what if I had been negotiating a contract or on vacation. If Wilson had been handling the day to day details in my absence, he might have approved it."

"Perhaps, I do think you should have more trust in Mr. Wilson, though; certainly the two of you have worked together long enough that he can anticipate your reaction to such an ill thought out proposal as summarily breaching fourteen contracts of highly skilled professionals. However, if it had been approved, I am rather certain that Mr. Swift in Human Resources would have brought the matter to your attention before the decision was irrevocable."

"God! Harold, you are infuriating, arguing a point by bringing up another point I want to talk you out of, You know if you were formally recognized as a cofounder of ITF, instead of a cog in the wheel, you wouldn't need to worry about how to keep the job of a low level software engineer, or an HR field rep, or a mail clerk. Seriously Harold, why put yourself through all of this."

"Have you ever wondered," Harold questioned softly as he lifted a finger to his shoulder for the wren to move to, "how such small and seemingly defenseless birds ... such as this... have managed to survive in a world with so many predators? "

He knew the question would walk a fine line between triggering Nathan's protective instincts and getting the message across in a way that Nathan might actually listen to, if he could just get his friends to stop viewing him as the brilliant but bullied, seemingly defenseless freshman, without family or connections, and only at MIT thanks to a very generous scholarship (a scholarship that he had never and would never know to have been generated from Harold's early hacking).

"I'm sorry if you still feel the world is like that, Harold. I have done my best to make sure you have a place that you can feel comfortable in, where you don't feel like you have to hide who you are, where your daemon can settle into one form." 

"What?!?" Harold asked, absolutely started. This he hadn't been expecting. 

"I've known you for... what... Twenty-three years now. Did you really think that I haven't noticed that her patterns change? That doesn't happen when your daemon has settled. Oh, she's always a wren or finch or small bird of some sort, and you almost never let any one see her often enough to tell, but over twenty plus years... You don't have to keep hiding it ... Not from me at least. I mean I know that people don't tend to trust adults with unsettled daemons, and can be petty and difficult, but you've made a place here where you can be above that. You can choose your own staff and pick people who won't be swayed by superstition and meaningless differences. And anyway, if you'll just get out more, settle down to one job-one persona-one role, she'll settle; I'm sure of it. The fact that she's held a bird form for so many years likely means that she will fix in some type of a bird. Who knows, it could be that if you give her some space, she might settle as a dove or an owl, or maybe given the way you like picking at puzzles, she might be a raven. Give her a chance, give yourself a chance."

Nathan's plea had become surprisingly empassioned as he spoke, Harold was for several moments struck speechless.

Before he could decide on what to say in response, Nathan seemed to take pity on him, commenting, "Just think about it, but go on with whichever of your father's analogies you were going to share."

Harold's expression must have communicated his surprise at the correct attribution of the analogy because Nathan's frustrated expression softened into a fond smile as he answered the unspoken question: "twenty-three years, Harold. If it's a detail about a wren, finch, or other bird, you learned it from your father."

//Present// 

Harold grimaced slightly as the slide required to move behind the temporary screen provided by the flower vendor standing between himself and John put more stress on his ankle and knee than was strictly advisable; however, it was necessary if he wished to reach the cafe's shadowed porch and the narrow step down to an alley leading to hidden trash and utility delivery street that didn't open out anywhere on the street that he and John were currently traveling on, instead of the entrance further south that John had already seen him use once that week. 

As soon as he reached his destination, Harold finished their conversation with a tartly-timed, "We'll meet on my schedule, Mr. Reese, not yours..." then hurried down the alley until he reached the utility row where he could watch the light on the security camera that he'd had installed when he'd first purchased the property.

'H-e -- I-s -- s-t-o-p-p-e-d. --- T--u--r--n--I--n--g -- e-I-g-h-t-y-s-e-v-e-n -- d-e-g-r-e-e-s -- n-o-r-t-h -- n-e-g-a-t-I-v-e -- e-I-g-h-t-y-s-e-v-e-n -- d-e-g-r-e-e-s. H-e -- I-s -- s-t-o-p-p-e-d. O-n-l-y -- h-e-a-d -- r-o-t-a-t-I-o-n, -- o-n-e -- h-u-n-d-r-e-d-e-I-g-h-t-y -- d-e-g-r-e-e-s. -- H-e -- I-s -- r-e-t-r-e-a-t-I-n-g -- t-o -- o-r-I-g-I-n-a-l -- p-a-t-h,'

"Thank you," Harold smiled briefly and nodded to acknowledge Sys'd's report of John's reaction to being out maneuvered. 

'A-r-e -- y-o-u -- t-r-a-I-n-I-n-g?'

"No, why do you ask?" Harold asked, watching the blinking light curiously. 

'Y-o-u -- a-r-e -- e-n-g-a-g-I-n-g -- I-n -- t-r-a-c-e -- a-n-d -- l-o-c-a-t-e.'

"Hide and seek? Well, yes, I suppose, I am; however, not for training purposes."

'I-s -- o-p-e-r-a-t-I-v-e -- t-h-r-e-a-t?'

"No, I should say not; Mr. Reese is - though I am loathe to use the term - an asset. "

'D-I-l-l-I-n-g-e-r -- w-a-s -- b-o-t-h -- a-s-s-e-t -- a-n-d -- t-h-r-e-a-t.'

"Yes. I do remember, however, my research into Mr. Reese was exceedingly thorough and informed by Dillinger's example as it happens in regard to which traits to avoid."

'P-u-r-p-o-s-e -- o-f -- e-n-g-a-g-I-n-g -- I-n -- t-r-a-c-e -- a-n-d -- l-o-c-a-t-e?'

"Mr. Reese is both naturally curious and trained to be so. It is only to be expected, especially given the betrayal foisted on him by his former employers, that Mr. Reese would be wary any new associations. Given time and sufficient interaction, his curiosity should diminish."

'Y-o-u-r -- a-c-t-I-o-ns -- a-r-e -- I-n-c-o-n-s-I-s-t-a-n-t.'

"How so?"

'Y-o-u -- t-r-u-s-t -- h-I-m -- b-u-t -- w-I-t-h-h-o-l-d -- I-n-f-o-r-m-a-t-I-o-n -- a-n-d -- a-c-t -- I-n -- a -- m-a-n-n-e-r -- w-h-I-c-h -- e-n-s-u-r-e-s -- h-e -- w-I-l-l -- b-e -- a-w-a-r-e -- y-o-u -- a-r-e -- w-I-t-h-h-o-l-d-I-n-g -- d-a-t-a.'

"That is an interesting analysis. Do you have any suppositions as to my motives?"

'Y-e-s -- f-o-u-r -- t-h-o-u-s-a-n-d -- s-e-v-e-n -- h-u-n-d-r-e-d -- t-w-e-n-t-y -- t-h-r-e-e." 

"Well, this should be an interesting exploration of your understanding of human nature. Partition a thirty-two gigabyte segment of the library's server to archive, index, and analyze evidence supporting your theories. Sixteen weeks should provide sufficient data to significantly reduce your theories in number. Do you have any central theories?"

'O-n-e'

"Only one? Really? What is it?"

'A-t-t-r-a-c-t-I-o-n.'

"What?!?" Harold choked the question out before feeling a flush rise to his cheeks. "No, never mind. We can talk about this later but I would suggest you develop other central theses... less preposterous ones at the very least. The probability that he would be attracted to me is miniscule."

Harold was already seated at his desk, in the library, roughly half-an-hour later, when he remembered a pertinent part of their conversation and realized that Sys'd had been referring to his motivations - not John's.


	3. Chapter 3

2013//2003//1993//1983//1973// **1963**  
  
"I, John Henry Hendon Singleton, take this woman, Mary Claudette Hamilton, to have and to hold, to love and protect, in sickness and in health, for richer or poorer, till death do us part."  
  
Staring deeply into his new wife's eyes, John swore a silent and solemn oath that keep Mary safe, make her happy, and make sure she'd never know another day of the pain, loneliness, or fear her own father had inflicted on her whenever the mood struck for no other reason than he had the strength and meanness to do it.  
  
"I love you, you know." He offered leaning in to place a gentle, chaste kiss on her lips.  
  
He could easily read the doubt in her eyes, her insecurities just another type of open wound left behind by her father: he wasn't under any illusions that half of the reason she'd said yes wasn't to get away from the old bastard, but that had been one of the main reasons he'd asked her instead of waiting until he'd gotten back from boot camp - so she could come with him and stay near the base.  
  
As the happy couple walked back down the aisle of the nearly empty church, their daemons, a confident blue tick hound and a solemn little springer spaniel leaned into each other, one providing, the other seeking comfort as they prepared to leave the only homes they had known.  


  


2013//2003//1993//1983// **1973** //1963  
==January==  
  
Mary wiped her eyes as her husband set down the last of his gear and took a final look around the room.  
  
"Are you're sure you're gonna be alright here?" John asked with concern.  
  
"John," she laughed with more than a little exasperation, "This isn't you're first deployment. I'll be just fine."  
  
"You know it's different this time." He sighed, "I don't like the idea of you having to go through this alone."  
  
"I won't be alone." Mary disagreed, "the base has a great medical staff, Betty and Julie are planning to visit every day, and it won't be that much longer; everyday there's something in the news about the peace talks."  
  
"Can't rely on the news, Doll." John chuckled, pulling her gently into a hug. He lingered, trying to ignore the feel of her quiet tears dampening his shirt, his arms wrapped over her shoulder and lightly around her back, his chin snugged into the crook of her shoulder.  
  
"I know, but I can hope; I was hoping..." Mary broke off with a sniff, clearly trying to marshal her emotions.  
  
"I know, Doll," John agreed, not trying to hide his own feelings about leaving, or the chokiness of his voice at the thought of leaving her behind. "I was, too."  
  
Just as he started to nuzzle her cheek again, the alarm clock in their bedroom started to ring stridently.  
  
"Well Damn," John cursed softly. "I'm sorry, Doll; it's time to go."  
  
Dropping to one knee, he slid his hands down to bracket the plump oval pushing from her waist.  
  
"Listen up, Junior," he ordered softly, "You be nice to your mom, okay? Tone down the kicking, and let you're mom get some sleep. You got me? She's a special lady, and it's our job to take care of her."  
  
"Oh, John," Mary laughed. "You know he can't hear, you. Anyway, if he's anything like is father..." She broke off laughing again as Tatia joined her human, nosing Mary's stomach with a puff of breath that she felt through her shirt.  
  
"Don't finish that sentence," John commented, standing up with a chuckle, "I guarantee you don't want to know the hijinx I got up to as kid."  
  
"No, I probably don't." Mary agreed, freezing as they both heard the jeep coming to pick up John and Tatia.  
  
Cupping his hand around the back of her head, he pulled her forward pressing his own to it, before pressing a soft kiss to her lips.  
  
"We love you, you know?" He asked, smiling as he felt her nod against his forehead and her sweet certainty in Caleb's lick across the back of his hand.  


  


2013//2003// **1993** //1983//1973//1963  
  
"Son, it looks like you've been up to quite a bit of hijinx." Judge Raphael Pierson commented wryly, as he stared down the stoic young man, still sporting a black eye and bruises from defending a bar waitress's honor several nights earlier.  
  
"Yes, Sir." The young man answered, without the public defendant's prompting, which was somewhat refreshing.  
  
"Which, truth be told, poses a bit of a difficulty for me. You see, on one hand, I have a stack of complaints going back a handful of years - complaints of you scrapping and relying on your fists to solve your problems, and on the other, I have a pile of letters and recommendations -just as high- from teachers, your principal, a dean, your baseball coach, and heck even from some of the sheriffs who'd arrested ya, and all of them saying that you were fighting for one good reason or other and shouldn't be put in jail when you were most likely defending someone. But here's the problem, John, your not a minor anymore, and looking at these complaints - at face value- a number of them would have amounted to battery if you'd been an adult when you were charged."  
  
Judge Pierson paused waiting to see if he would hear some form of denial or excuse from the boy, but Singleton, if anything, stood straighter, unflinching and resigned to whatever sentence the judge was about to hand down - as he answered. "yes, Sir.' His daemon, a thin-underfed looking malanois, named Malaya, according to his report, stood beside him equally grim and supportive, if seeming somewhat tired and detached.  
  
If Singleton had offered either excuse or denial, Pierson would have likely rescinded the offer he'd been about to make, but the boy's frank willingness to face up to what he'd done, made the decision for him. Well, that, and the stack of personality witnesses who'd written and called him, all of them telling the story, in one detail or another of a good, but angry and disillusioned kid who had lost his way without the benefit of parental guidance both parents having died early in his childhood (his father soon after returning from the war, and his mother not long after they had returned to live with her father in circumstances that though not detailed in the letters, were suspicious to anyone of Pierson's experience).  
  
Enough was hinted at across the various letters that Pierson knew that the boy's life after that... with his grandfather had not been an easy or beneficial one. The letters spoke of a bright and - in all other aspects - gentle young man, who would befriend and protect younger, smaller, or weaker students and outcasts... gentle until someone he felt protective of was threatened and he (and his daemon) turned merciless... and there was his other problem, at 20, the boy's daemon had yet to settle, telling Pierson not only how unsettled the boy's life had been but that there was still hope. Singleton's life (and soul) could go either way, and Pierson intended to see that it would go the right way.  
  
"I think you have the solution to my quandary. John, so I am going to ask you a question: you can elect to serve one year in the county jail or three years minimum in service to your country. Which do you think would honor your parents' memories more? "  
  
"The Army, Sir."  
  
"Good choice, son. In accordance you have thirty days to set your affairs in order and provide this court evidence that you have enlisted in the Army for a term no shorter than three years. On receipt of this, I order that the complaints contained herein shall be sealed until such a time as this order is rescinded or Mr. Singleton fails to complete the three years of military service as agreed upon, unless due to injury received in service of his country. If Mr. Singleton fails to complete the three years of military service for any other reason, the court reserves the right to reopen this matter and apply the alternate sentence of one year in the county jail. Court's adjourned." 

  


//Present//  
  
"Malaya," John sighed, staring up at his daemon who was obstinately perched with her back to the last direction John had seen Finch walking toward when he had disappeared, "Care to give me a hint here?"  
  
While Malaya's angry scree was a clear denial, it didn't seem sufficient to the falcon who decided to reiterate her refusal and launched herself into a swift spiral sweeping past him and scratching John's cheek as she passed to settle on a trash can yards behind him.  
  
"I just want some information," John offered when he caught up to her.  
  
/ _Earn his trust, then_ / she snapped at him clicking her beak in a disdainful manner before jumping into the air again and flying out far enough that she was close to the edge of what had become their new barrier since Ordos.  
  
When she settled on a light post just far enough to pull uncomfortably on their bond, John let the stretch of it itch under his skin until he noticed her feathers shifting restlessly and moved into her range by a few feet.  
  
In training and in the field... before Ordos, John and Malaya had managed to function - efficiently- at remote distances eighteen to nineteen times the distance they were currently separated, but that range had shrunken to the almost normal human/daemon distance limitations... after Ordos; during their long struggle to evade their former employers with Johns long painful recovery constantly undermined by exposure, starvation, malnutrition he could find something edible, constant stress and danger, sleep deprivation, and unspeakably un-hygienic conditions of being on the run; life in the homeless camp; and his depression after learning about Jessica.  
  
That had had the worst effect on their bond, filling John with such an utter despair and darkness that Malaya had finally been forced to relent on her self-imposed isolation from him and shift forms to offer him what cold and little comfort she could to her human, knowing John blamed himself as much as she did for Jessica and Monto's loss. It had been the first time they had even touched since he had joined the SAD, and disorienting in the extreme even if it had seemed to awaken something of their connection, allowing them to communicate again in a way they hadn't been able to for close to five years. From that night on, the distances they had once been able to stay apart from each other with ease were becoming more and more painful, leaving them feeling stretched and exhausted after parting for any true distance for any length of time - but despite renewed ability to communicate, it seemed a forced boundary that only worked to chafe their nerves instead of easing them.  
  
"Malaya,.." John sighed staring at her.  
  
He was all to aware that she was intentionally distancing herself so that she wouldn't have to listen to him reasonably explain why -after being betrayed by his 'last employers' the CIA- he was wary of blindly following a reclusive billionaire, who possessed a mind brilliant enough to code the so-called 'Machine', ever-ready aliases and jobs he could disappear into, the skills to evade an experienced, black-ops operative, and the facility to camouflage the identity and nature of his true daemon (part of the CIA's distance-training had included the use of 'faux-daemon' pets as part of their disguises- so John hadn't been fooled in the slightest by the little wren that Harold liked to have hopping from his pocket to his shoulder nor even the slightest bit more trusting of the man for taming the little creature) ... even if Malaya had taken an instant liking to the Finch and had - almost instantly- decided that John needed to earn the man's trust, and not the other way around.  
  
For that matter, John wasn't certain that Malaya even liked or trusted him nor had for some time - despite knowing what had motivated the path he'd taken - so her taste and seeming affection for Finch, not withstanding, John wasn't ready to give up yet on his 'research'; certain that - in the end- Finch was hiding something that would turn around and bite them in the backs if left undiscovered.  
  
"Fine," he sighed, "I'm going back to the library."   
  
He was fairly certain she could hear him, but even if she couldn't, the pull of their bond would soon inform her of his departure.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize in advance for any difficulty you may have in reading this chapter. Sys'd's POV hijacked my muse.

DEVICE=C:\Subroutine\HIMEM.SYS  
DOS=HIGH,UMB  
DEVICE=C:\Subroutine\ESS600.EXE NOEMS  
FILES=50  
STACKS=32,126  
BUFFERS=60  
DEVICEHIGH=C:\Subroutine\COMMAND\SYS\D\ANSI.SYS  
DEVICEHIGH=C:\PARTITION\SYS\D\D:123  
LASTDRIVE=C:\Subroutine  
FCBS=255  
LASTDRIVE=C:\Subroutine

Sys'd waited silently for the machine's relevant systems to reload after it's midnight reboot and counted the micro-seconds that it took her human to scan through the returned status reports to verify the system was performing in accordance with his expectations. When he was finally satisfied, after reviewing seven subroutines that she had added through the previous day, unexpectedly smiling as he indexed their patterns, resultant outputs, and analyzed their purposes. 

"Very good," he murmured in a tone she recognized as ratification. "This is a very astute application of resources. Very well done. That said, then, I will leave the 'machine' in your capable supervision." 

Webcamera Odio WC417 picked up the image of her human covering his mouth with his hand as generic installed Odio LS00013 detected him emitting sound registering in the soft consonant category dropping in pitch for .07200 seconds before raising in volume 22 degrees for .017 seconds and cutting off: indicators that he was experiencing energy deficiency and would soon need to hibernate.

'G-o-o-d -- N-i-g-h-t'

"Good Night, Sys'd" he responded, pausing 3.0297 seconds. 

Sys'd recognized the pause as an indicator that he was indexing and refining thoughts to communicate, but webcamera Odio WC417 tracked a minute rotation 7 degree rotation of his chin counter clockwise immediately followed by a 7 degree rotation clockwise, indicating a negation in decision to communicate before he turned away. 

Cameras Odio WC417, fixed CS1638.27k, and fixed CS1638.27e followed his progress, 32 inches per second down the hall, past the first junction to the street, where he was picked up by the CS1638.28 network, which would follow him until he either merged into another network or diverged into an uncovered area. Sys'd opened the index to his current mobile digital device, tracking the devices audio and gps in the eventuality that he diverged instead of merged to another network. 

When she had calculated that his progressive distance fell within the +/- 0.0003% probability that he would return that evening, Sys'd initiated the machine's command prompt and opened the partitioned drive that she used to index, archive, and analyze her observations. 

/C:\Subroutine\Admin > cd\  
c:  
/C:\PARTITION\SYS\D\D:123

/C:\PARTITION\SYS\D\D:/F

Sys'd ran a prefunctory scan to detect system corruption, analyze the disk errors' causation, re-clone affected submodules, and adjust the settings responsible to prevent further decline, before opening the master file: C:\PARTITION\SYS\D\D\OPERATIVE COMPATIBILITY\JR\HW. 

Loading the archived data into her higher memory, Sys'd reviewed her earlier calculations and cross-checked them with the data accumulated during the previous day's observations. 

Each observation confirmed to a +/- .00025 degree of certainty that there was a 99.9997% probability with regard to the speculation 0014 (that the display of indicators of compatibility and attraction were bi-directional between Operative02/John Reese and her human), that Sys'd was correct in her current conclusions of: 

\- an 84.002% probability that her human recognized the indicators of compatibility with Operative02/John Reese

\- an 83.878% probability that her human recognized the indicators of his attraction toward Operative02/John Reese

\- a13.296% probability that her human would analyze and ratify the possibility of acting on the basis of these indicators

\- a 60.006% probability that her human would analyze and reject the possibility of acting on the basis of these indicators

\- a 0.04% probability that Operative02/John Reese recognized the indicators of compatibility with her human

\- a 0.008% probability that Operative02/John Reese recognized the indicators of her human's attraction toward him

\- an 11.0047% probability that Operative02/John Reese recognized the indicators of his attraction toward her human

\- a .000502% probability that Operative02/John Reese would analyze and ratify the possibility of acting on the basis of these indicators

\- a 40.006% probability that Operative02/John Reese would analyze and reject the possibility of acting on the basis of these indicators if made aware of them

In a comparison of 875 verified compatibility and attraction factors, her human displayed 713 indicators in Operative02/John Reese's presence, 542 of which he did not display in the presence of any current acquaintances. Based on her human's previous display of 720 compatibility and attraction factors only in the presence of Influencing association09/Grace Hendricks and 681 compatibility and attraction factors in Nathan Ingram's presence, Sys'd assesses the predominance of displayed factors toward Operative02/John Reese as statistically significant, warranting additional observation and integration into speculation 0692. 

Of the 875 compatibility and attraction factors, Operative02/John Reese displayed 742 factors in her human's presence, 704 factors in Detective Carter's presence, and conversely 200 factors in Officer Fusco's presence. While Sys'd had thirteen libraries of data regarding Operative02/John Reese, the parameters of the observations had not related to Operative02/John Reese compatibility and attraction to other observed associations, the unavailability of comparative data prevented a comparable assessment of the statistical significance of Operative02/John Reese's attraction toward her human.

With regard to speculation 0692 (Operative02/John Reese and her human score with statistical similarity of +-0.03% on inventories of normative moral principles and +-0.000104% differentiation on inventories of non-normative moral principles indicating a potentially recursive increase of favorable events confluent to initiating an upgrade of Operative02/John Reese to influencing association10), Sys'd observations during the previous week had recorded -

\- An increase by 22% of her human resuming activities categorized as 'salutary to physical and emotional welfare' in the library of human behaviors that could be disregarded in assessing 'relevant activities'. 

\- That 84% of the resumed activities followed within 18 hours of a topically-related statement from Operative02/John Reese

\- Concurrent with the increase of 'salutary' behaviors, the frequency of her human's 'vital statistics' falling in the DSM -5 (Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders) range of anxiety and depressive disorders during periods of inactivity had decreased by 7%.

On the basis of these conclusions, Sys'd was in the process of synthesizing a secondary imperative to initiate the integration of Operative02/John Reese into the machine's index of critical individuals and contingency protocols, as well assessing potential strategies to take optimize the 26.71% discrepancy between her human's willingness to ratify or reject the possibility of acting on the statistically significant compatibility and attraction factors, as well as increasing the Operative02/John Reese's 59.00408% discrepancy between ratifying and rejecting the possibility of acting on the basis of these factors. 

Additionally, in Sys'd's analysis, the deficiency of comparative data on which to assess Operative02/John Reese's past reaction to stimulus of compatibility and attraction factors warranted direct, unfiltered communication with the operative.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "In computer science, algorithms are habitually defined as fixed and often finite procedures of step-by-step instructions understood to produce something other than themselves; i.e. as time-based teleological structures that may interact with other things such as data, interfaces or data structures, with possible sensorial effects addressed to humans."  
> -Eleni Ikoniadou, "Review of _Contagious Architecture, computation, aesthetics and space_." The MIT Press, Cambridge MA, March 2013

C:\PARTITION\SYS\D\D\Influencing Associations

40648\\\39963\\\36237\\\32564\\\29173\\\25458\\\21736  
c:\\\PARTITION\Sys\D\D\Influencing Associations\archive\Influencing Association01\sysdate = 40648  
  
//Present//

During the interval between the machine's reboot and her human's scheduled return to the library, Sys'd ran 2.03397 X 10 ^ 47 calculations regarding conclusion 40648.0205 pursuant to speculation 0014 (the display of indicators of compatibility and attraction are bi-directional between Operative02/John Reese and her human), that the deficiency of comparative data on which to assess Operative02/John Reese's past reaction to stimulus of compatibility and attraction factors warranted direct, unfiltered communication with the operative. 68.0525072% of these calculations resulted in strategies that she categorized as 'unfavorable' presenting less than a 32.9066666% probability of development into data producing communication. Rejecting an additional 24.325246% of the remaining calculations as producing strategies that would produce data, but that would interrupt the bi-directional vector of the interactions between her human and Operative02/John Reese. 

The remaining 1.580660376*10^46 calculations informed 8672 strategies for initiating communication with Operative02/John Reese that she assessed as presenting a higher than 97.02183250% probability of deriving data from Operative02/John Reese, in conjunction with optimizing the potential bi-directional vector of Operative02/John Reese's interactions with her human. Synthesizing these strategies, Sys'd assigned them hierarchical values based to Operative02/John Reese's probable responses and rating each in terms of the probability of each strategy creating a favorable counter response from Operative02/John Reese.

Armed with an alpha-phase algorithm, between 02:00:01 A.M. Greenwich Meantime -5:00 and 02:01:01 A.M. Greenwich Meantime -5:00, Sys'd ran 14,296,360 simulations to verify the algorithm's accuracy to a 99.9999994% degree of accuracy, and concluded that the algorithm was suitable to pass into a beta-phase test. Following this, Sys'd reviewed the available archives of Operative02/John Reese's interactions and compiled a dictionary of words, phrases, and tonalities that elicited displays both negative and positive physiological reactions and adjusted her algorithm's best-response dynamics to incorporate these dictionaries, improving the previous 99.9999994% accuracy rate to 99.99999999997206% accurate. +-.00000000020191% deviations from defined outcomes. Her human had previous defined this accuracy rate as sufficient in terms of near-optimal objective function value with regard to human interface dynamics, so Sys'd finalized the algorithm and compiled it to run in the high memory from the Subroutine command prompt, without the requirement of shifting further mounting the partitioned drive. 

At 02:05:01 A.M. Greenwich Meantime -5:00, Sys'd initiated the machine's command prompt and closed the partitioned drive that she used to index, archive, and analyze her observations, opening the drive partitioned to engage the machine's primary systems. 

/C:\PARTITION\SYS\D\D:123> cd\  
/C:  
/C:\Subroutine\Admin  
/C:\Subroutine\Admin:/F  


The remaining allotted time until her human's return to the library would be required for the machine's processes to perform it's primary directive. Monitoring the machine's progress.

At 05:54:01 A.M. Greenwich Meantime -5:00, Sys'd initiated the machine's command prompt, inputting:  
C:\Subroutine\Admin:> c:\Subroutine\  
/C: \Subroutine\:>/operative_input  
/C:\Subroutine\operative_input:  
> RUN  


40648\\\39963\\\36237\\\32564\\\29173\\\25458\\\21736

 **2011** //2001//1991//1981//1971

05:55:00 A.M

As per his training and habituation, John rose from his fiftieth push up, into a yoga stretch as the last step of his warm up, and caught his breath - the only sign of reaction to the bruising and aches left behind from the previous day's exertions that he would allow himself to show even in privacy. 

After the quick perfunctory rubdown with a disposable shop towel that completed his routine, John dropped the towel into the waiting trash liner, and proceeded to strip to his boxers- dropping his warm up pants and t directly into his carry bag, pulled on the waiting suit, socks, and accessories. His shoes were waiting by the door, but he wouldn't be putting those on until he reached the stairwell. His grooming took less than a minute, even with the care given to ensure that all loose hairs that might have been caught in the bristles were contained in the ziplock bag - leaving no traces on the floor. To be certain, and just as a matter of maintaining good practices, he followed up, skimming over the area he'd exercised then dressed with a swift-mop duster pad that he dropped into the liner.

His carry bag over his shoulder, the liner and his shoes in his free hand, and the motel room sterilized as well if not better than he had during his previous employment, John left his temporary bolt-hole - closing the door and locking it as he stepped into the hall. He didn't take off the latex gloves or finally slip on his shoes until he was safely obscured in the stairwell, but once he had, and securely tied off the liner that he dropped into the trash drop on the opposite side of building three floors down, John felt himself beginning to breath a bit earlier and feeling more ready for the day. Predictably, the desk clerk was either still half a sleep in the staff break room, or hadn't arrived yet, but either way, wasn't around to notice that the room key he'd dropped on the front desk had fallen out of a thin, lint-free pocket square. Given the time, the time he was leaving (four hours before check out) there was no need for him to hang around to settle up, either. 

Two blocks south of the hotel, John's attention was caught by the rhythmic blinking of a cctv camera's power indicator light, as he paused to sip his coffee.

/long-short-long-short-long/

"Dahdidahdidah," John murmured, reciting the morse prosign for attention. 

"Finch?" he questioned softly, tapping his ear piece. "What's with the lightshow?"

John kept his eyes glued on the light, waiting for an  SOS  to follow, though that would have, or should have been first if Finch was being threatened.

'N-o -- n-o-t -- a-d-m-i-n. -- N-o-t -- F-i-n-c-h.'

"Okay," John drawled the word, not quite believing it; although, Finch didn't strike John as the type to engage in pranks, nor did he believe that Finch had involved another partner in the past weeks. "Before we get into introductions, is there some reason you're not using the phone?"

He could think of seven off the top of his head.

'A-d-m-i-n -- r-e-f-e-r-s -- t-o -- S-y-s-D -- a-s -- t-h-e --m-a-c-h-i-n-e.'

"Really?" John wasn't certain he could quite believe it, but then again, from the way that Finch talked about it, as if it was nearly human, and the seeming intelligence it would require to assess the mass of NSA feeds and cctv data and reliably identify their 'numbers', an AI wasn't entirely out of the picture, either.

"Soooo, why are you reaching out to me? Is Finch in trouble?"

'N-o -- a-d-m-i-n -- h-a-s -- d-i-s-p-l-a-y-e-d -- i-n-d-i-c-a-t-o-r-s -- o-f -- R-E-M -- c-y-c-l-e -- s-i-n-c-e -0-4-:-5-5-:-0-1- A.M.--G-M-T-5-:-0-0.'

"So, you're up to hijinx, while daddy's asleep?"

"dididididididididit" John huffed a quiet chuckle at the error message, followed by the the 'dahdidah' prosign/inquiry for a response. "Never mind, why are you contacting me?"

'D-a-t-a -- i-s -- r-e-q-u-i-r-e-d."

"That sounds like a problem to take up with Finch. I'm afraid that I can't get you any more feeds than Finch already has.

The light paused for several seconds doing a fair simulation of thinking before blinking 'C-a-n -- y-o-u -- i-n-t-e-r-p-r-e-t -- m-o-r-s-e -- f-r-o-m -- a-u-d-i-o --s-i-g-n-a-l-s?'

"Yes, why?" John asked, already anticipating the answer, though.

In his ear, a rapid series of long and short beeps answered, "Y-o-u-r -- s-t-a-t-i-c -- p-o-s-i-t-i-o-n -- w-h-i-l-e- m-a-k-i-n-g -- r-e-s-p-o-n-s-e-s -- i-s -- i-n-c-o-n-s-i-s-t-a-n-t -- w-i-t-h -- v-e-c-t-o-r -- o-f -- s-u-r-r-o-u-n-d-i-n-g -- p-e-d-e-s-t-r-i-a-n-s."

Yep, this sounded like how John imagined a robot programmed by Finch might respond.

"Okay, I'm moving, again. Where is Finch, by the way?"

'A-d-m-i-n -- i-s --c-o-n-n-e-c-t-e-d -t-o-- n-e-t-w-o-r-k -- t-h-r-o-u-g-h -- t-h-e -- w-i-r-e-l-e-s-s -- r-o-u-t-e-r -- o-n -- t-h-e --i-n-t-e-r-f-a-c-e -- d-e-l-i-n-e-a-t-e-d -- l-i-b-r-a-r-y -- d-e-s-k."

"And, he can't provide the information you want?"

'N-o -- t-h-e -- d-a-t-a -- i-s -- o-u-t-s-i-d-e -- a-d-m-i-n-'-s -- e-x-p-e-r-i-e-n-c-e"

Given that Finch was pretty adept at evading John in the field, had done a fair job in the few in-field acts that John had asked of him, probably had at least four or five degrees under his belt, and access to NSA feeds, as well as enough information about the criminal element that he could create a system that accurately predicted violent behavior and criminal plots, John really couldn't imagine what type of knowledge was beyond Harold's scope of knowledge.

"And this data concerns what exactly?"

'H-u-m-a-n -- c-o-m-p-a-t-a-b-i-l-i-t-y -- a-n-d -- a-t-t-r-a-c-t-i-o-n -- f-a-c-t-o-r-s -- a-s -- p-e-r-t-a-i-n-i-n-g -- t-o -- t-h-e -- p-h-y-s-i-c-a-l -- s-o-c-i-a-l -- i-n-t-e-r-a-c-t-i-o-n - - c-a-t-e-g-o-r-i-zi-e-d -- as-- c-o-i-t-a-l"

Despite years of presenting a stoic mask regardless of who or what threat he faced, John nearly choked on his sip of coffee as the words and their meaning fell in to place.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Several channels and various features can be analyzed to assess the emotional state of a participant. Most studies focus on the analysis of facial expressions or of speech ([5], [6]). These types of signals can however (more or less) easily be faked; in order to have more reliable emotion assessments, we preferred to use spontaneous and less controllable reactions as provided by physiological signals. Physiological signals can be divided into two categories: those originating from the peripheral nervous system (e.g. heart rate, ElectroMyogram - EMG, galvanic skin resistance-GSR), and those coming from the central nervous system (e.g. ElectroEncephalograms-EEG)." 
> 
> Chanel, Kronegg, Grandjean, & Pun _"Emotion Assessment: Arousal Evaluation Using Peripheral Physiological Signals"_ Computer Vision Group , Computing Science Center, University of Geneva

"H-u-m-a-n -- c-o-m-p-a-t-a-b-i-l-i-t-y -- a-n-d -- a-t-t-r-a-c-t-i-o-n -- f-a-c-t-o-r-s -- a-s -- p-e-r-t-a-i-n-i-n-g -- t-o -- t-h-e -- p-h-y-s-i-c-a-l -- s-o-c-i-a-l -- i-n-t-e-r-a-c-t-i-o-n - - c-a-t-e-g-o-r-i-z-i-e-d -- as-- c-o-i-t-a-l"

John wiped the spill of coffee off his chin and stopped in his tracks to consider how address the question - fully convinced, now, that he was dealing directly with the machine. 

Not only could he not imagine Finch going anywhere near this far in some bizarre attempt at humor, but the question ruled out other potential employees or partners that Finch might have brought on - as he had absolutely no doubt that Harold had both the resources and the discretion restrict his hiring to the type of professional who would never consider stooping to this level even to initiate a new employee or alternately get a little of their own back for being out-shown in the field.

The only conclusion that remained... Harold's machine seemed to be asking him for some sort of sex-ed talk because Harold had either given the machine the brush off feeling uncomfortable with discussing the subject, which John couldn't credit when adultery and cheating could factor so heavily into the motivations underlying fatal intent..... or Harold did not actually have knowledge to share. 

"Wait a minute. Did you ask Harold, or calculate the probability that Harold hasn't..." John broke off, not really wanting to delve to deeply in that train of thought, "Because, if you did ... Perhaps I should correct a few misconceptions you may have been given (Somehow John could easily see Harold unintentionally biasing such estimations by misjudging himself and others like him based on common, Hollywood propegated stereotypes.) Carnal ... activities..." (and just how do you describe intercourse in a discreet manner to a computer?) " are often informed by a lot more than superficial physical appearance. People also value traits that Finch possesses, in abundance, including intelligence, aristocratic manners, worldliness, humor, faith in lost causes, and not to be crass, but it's true... money. Any of those or any combination of those could have drawn any woman he'd be interested in to his bed, so..."

'A-d-m-I-n -- v-e-r-I-f-i-e-d -- e-x-p-e-r-I-e-n-c-e -- d-e-f-I-c-I-t-s .'

At the machine's response, John had to stop in his tracks and focus on a non-existent crack in the coffee cup's lid as he struggled to keep his composure and suppress the laughter rolling in the back of his throat at the absurd conversation that he imagined it had to have been. 

"Wish I could have heard that one." John murmured, offhandedly. 

'I-n-f-o-r-m-a-t-i-o-n -- e-x-c-h-a-n-g-e -- a-c-c-e-p-t-a-b-l-e,' the machine responded, but before John could decide whether to commit to answering whatever questions the machine might come up with- a thin, somewhat tinny recording played into his earwig.

> 'Yes; I agree, however that information is already available to you through several of the database of anatomical and psychological journals." Finch's voice commented sounding uncertain.
> 
> "How is it incomplete?" Finch answered an unspoken question, sounding startled as if it had never occurred to him that the machine could perceive a gap in information that he hadn't noticed first.
> 
> "Well, yes, I can see how the textual descriptions may not align perfectly with the various behavioral continuums outlined as guidelines for categorizing your observations. However, regrettably, I will not be able to supply the correlative data to refine your observational guidelines."
> 
> Harold's voice trailed off and was followed by several seconds of silence, before Finch responded in a noticeably quieter voice, "No, the information is not restricted or off limits, though I will say it is not generally considered a topic for polite conversation. It is rather due to... Well that is to say ... ... .,. " Finch's voice trailed off, but the undertone of an air conditioning system running in the background told John recording was still running.
> 
> Finally, a drawn out sigh cut across the background, forewarned of the admission that almost poured out in a rush: "It.is.a.subject.I.have.no.direct.knowledge.of.so.I.am.afraid.that.for.the.present.that.data is unavailable. So, a return to our earlier top would be more ... productive at this juncture."

'I-n-f-o-r-m-a-t-I-o-n -- t-r-a-n-s-f-e-r -- c-o-m-p-l-e-t-e.' 

John found himself speechless for a beat. The seemingly one-sided conversation had been as awkward as he had imagined, but the humor of it had been erased by the noticeably suppressed undertones of longing and discomfort he had heard in the whispered confession. 

'R-e-c-i-p-r-o-c-a-l -- t-r-a-n-s-f-e-r --a-v-a-I-l-a-b-l-e?' The machine prompted. 

"Just a minute, " John held up his hand in a forestalling gesture before realizing that the machine might not know what it meant. "We need to clarify something: I haven't agreed to answer your questions... yet," he added softening the statement. He wasn't ready for the machine to decide to cut off communication with him because he didn't provide the answers it wanted... even if he now felt somewhat discomforted knowing such a personal about his very private friend/employer/handler (he wasn't even quite certain what to call Finch, which in and of itself, made the fact that he knew the man was a virgin all the more awkward). 

'A-d-d-I-t-o-n-a-l -- d-a-t-a -- r-e-q-u-I-r-e-d?'

John hesitated, not entirely willing to forfeit the chance to get additional information about Finch from as close to the source as he'd probably get, but also not sure to what extent Finch would be able to detect his conversation with the machine. Falling back on his training, John decided to turn the question around, hopefully giving the impression that he was willing to cooperate, without committing himself to something. At this point, despite the fact that the computer had the ability to be even slightly sneaky (trying to get the information out of him while Finch was asleep), there was no telling if the machine's thinking boiled down to binary (black/white) decision making that could back fire on him if he gave the impression of being unwilling, untrustworthy, or unhelpful. 

"Okay, so what kind of information do you want from me." He asked, stalling.

'D-a-t-e -- a-n-d -- t-i-m-e -- o-f -- i-n-c-i-d-e-n-c-e-s -- w-h-e-r-e -- y-o-u-r -- r-e-s-p-o-n-s-e-s -- t-o -- a-t-t-r-a-c-t-i-o-n -- f-a-c-t-o-r-s -- a-s -- p-e-r-t-a-i-n-i-n-g -- t-o -- t-h-e -- p-h-y-s-i-c-a-l -- s-o-c-i-a-l -- i-n-t-e-r-a-c-t-i-o-n -- c-a-t-e-g-o-r-i-z-i-e-d -- as-- c-o-i-t-a-l -- m-a-y -- b-e -- o-b-s-e-r-v-e-d.' 

This time, John did choke on his coffee, accidentally crushing the cup in his grip as he fought the urge to laugh. 

It made sense in a way, although he couldn't suppress the thought that he'd like to be there to see Finch's expression if he ever discovered that he'd created a peeping Tom.

A bit of voyeurism made sense - given that the machine had been programmed to constantly watch everyone's activities, every hour of the day, but the thought of being the central figure in the computer's version of sex ed (or worse porn) was surreal if not a bit ludicrous. 

"Sorry," he finally answered, when he got his breath under control again, "I'm afraid that I can't provide that information for you."

'O-p-e-r-a-t-i-v-e -- i-s -- m-i-s-s-s-t-a-t-i-n-g -- d-a-t-a. --P-r-e-v-i-o-u-s -- o-b-s-e-r-v-a-t-i-o-n-s -- v-e-r-I-f-y -- o-p-e-r-a-t-i-v-e -- p-o-s-s-e-s-s- -- t-o-p-i-c-a-l -- e-x-p-e-r-I-e-n-c-e.'

Tossing the crushed coffee cup in the nearest trash can, John shook his head, almost surprised that he was more amused than bothered by the fact that the machine had already been trying to dig up info on his past sexual encounters... and tried to explain. 

"Sorry I wasn't clear about that. There's two reasons I can't give you the information you're asking about: first I haven't been keeping track of the date and times (our memories don't have time stamps), and even if they did, I've been pretty careful to stay out of view of recording devices, even before I knew about your existence. "

John continued on, stopping at the deli to pick up a pastry and green tea for Finch, and a replacement coffee for himself, waiting for the machine's response. Until the machine beeped "u-n-d-e-r-s-t-o-o-d,-- r-e-q-u-e-s-t-- w-i-t-h-d-r-a-w-n" in his earwig, its soft beeps sounding almost disappointed.

"Okay, but if there's some data you need in the future, let me know; I'll see what I can do." John offered, in an attempt to keep the lines of communication open to the unexpected, potential asset.

The machine gave a quick beep of assent and a transmission end prosign just as John reached the library steps leading up to Finch's make-shift office. Finding Finch asleep on the desk, not quite drooling in his sleep as he shifted, he paused to stare at his boss. Filing a way the new bit of information - unaware of the camera turning toward him and capturing the fond smile he favored the other man with, John stepped up and set the coffee by Finches head and stepped back quickly as Finch immediately woke and sat up - marveling quietly at the man's sensitivity to his surroundings. 

"Don't you knock?" Finch questioned with a pinched bleary stare, looking slightly McGoo-ish without his glasses. 

Flattening his expression and hoping that Finch wouldn't be able to read any sign of his amusement, fondness, or lingering ambiguity about talking to the machine behind Finch's back, John answered, "Not if I can help it," - leaving unsaid the thought that -for some doors- he preferred the other person open the door before he risked going in. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Mandatory Access Control (MAC) is a type of access control in which only the administrator manages the access controls. The administrator defines the usage and access policy, which cannot be modified or changed by users, and the policy will indicate who has access to which programs and files. MAC is most often used in systems where priority is placed on confidentiality.
> 
> In computer security, Discretionary Access Control (DAC) is a type of access control in which a user has complete control over all the programs it owns and executes, and also determines the permissions other users have those those files and programs. Because DAC requires permissions to be assigned to those who need access, DAC is commonly called described as a "need-to-know" access model. " 
> 
> _MAC - Mandatory Access Control (MAC)_ & _Discretionary Access Control (DAC)_ ITBusinessEdge. _Webopedia.com_ 2016\. Web. 10 May 2016.

"G-o-o-d -- M-o-r-n-I-n-g." John tapped out on the side of his coffee cup as had become his custom when there was a good chance that Finch was online and stood a good chance of hearing anything he might say.

'G-o-o-d -- M-o-r-n-I-n-g.' The machine responded promptly, followed by a succinct report that 'a-d-m-I-n -- s-l-e-p-t -- 5-.-6-4- h-o-u-r-s -- s-I-n-c-e -- 2-2-:-0-0, -- w-I-t-h -- 3-4 --p-e-r-c-e-n-t -- s-l-e-e-p -- e-f-f-I-e-n-c-y --a-n-d -- h-a-s -- u-n-d-e-r-c-o-n-s-u-m-e-d -- 6-1 -- o- f -- t-h-e -- 5-0-0 -- c-a-l-o-r-I-e-s-- r-e-c-o-m-m-e-n-d-e-d -- b-e-t-w-e-e-n -- 5-:-0-0 -- a - n- d -- 1-0-:-0-0-. "

"I'll take care of it." John tapped back, directing a smile toward the nearest traffic camera.

The morning reports were a new development in his careful 'recruitment' of the machine as an asset in his investigation of Finch. After their first conversation, John had 'checked in' several mornings in a row in the guise of inquiring whether the machine had reframed the original inquiry in a manner that he could provide data for. 

Already knowing of course that it very likely wouldn't have had the perspective to do so, he nevertheless offered the opportunity each time, to ask a different question if data was lacking. Fourteen fruitless offers passed without making any in-roads until a handful of back-to-back numbers had Finch acting outside whatever set of parameters the machine had for Finch, and that morning's offer to the machine drew a request for an explanation and a solution to 'optimize Admin's performance'.

John had given a cursory explanation, then stopped by to pick up eggs Benedict from the restaurant that Finch had seen fit to let him know of, moved the longest couch he could find in the library up to the level Harold preferred to work from, taking Finch's seat but insisting when Finch arrived (half an hour late) that Finch hang around, eat, and sit the next couple of hours out while he 'ran a field test' to see how well Fusco and Carter performed in the field without his intervention. Less than two hours had passed before Finch was slumped over on his side dozing. A cold lunch plate from the same restaurant, brought in with breakfast and stored in the small cooler they used instead of the unplugged break room fridge- kept unplugged to reduce the noticeable power draw; three more hours of on and off naps; and Finch's behavior seemed to fall back to the machine's expected parameters. 

Since then, John suspected that he had been slotted into the computer's algorithms as some kind of manual, admin-focused... tech support, and John had begun receiving almost daily status reports on Finch's performance ranging from Finch's typing speed and calorie consumption to the frequency of his startle reflex and the variations of sounds Finch made while exercising (catching John off-guard the first time it played -without warning- a recording of Finch panting his way through what sounded like something entirely different but turned out to be a somewhat strenuous set of push-ups).

Turning to take a detour that would have him passing the 'Grand' and the food cart that carried Finch's preferred brand of Sencha Tea and the small ancho chicken wraps that Finch would eat even when he turned his nose up at eating in general, John was surprised to see Malaya perching on a lamppost less than twenty yards away.

It was the closest his daemon had, willingly, chosen to be without John being drunk and desperate for some kind of sustaining contact. Stopping to consider her for the first time in some weeks, John nodded and greeted her, "Good Morning, Malaya."

 _'John'_ , Malaya screeed a greeting in return and stopped John in his tracks. 

Deciding not to comment on her unexpected approachability, he offered instead, "you appear well-rested."

It was a very odd feeling to realize he didn't know how to converse with his daemon - a habit that most of civilians performed as readily and as naturally as breathing, but which had been trained out of him.

'Then there are some ways, we may still be similar," She answered, her cry sounding high pitched and still somewhat out of sorts, but at least she had not elected to increase the distance between him.

"Probably more ways than you realize," he agreed mildly, too amused by his earlier conversation with the machine to take the insult as she had probably meant it to be.

Collecting the take-in order, John handed the cook a moderate tip, and tapped his earbud, asking:"Good morning, Finch. You out there."

"Good Morning, Mr. Reese. Can I help you with something?"

"No, I'm just checking in."

"I see. Should I take that to mean that you will be detained from coming to ... the office, as it were." It was hard to say for certain, but John thought he detected a note of disapproval ... but softer... possibly disappointment. He dismissed the thought quickly, finding it difficult to believe that Finch would take any particular pleasure in his company.

"No, actually the opposite. I was in the mood for some of the chicken cemitas and decided to pick some up on the way in. I thought I'd check which sauce you'd prefer with yours. Today's choices are the Southwest Chipotle Ranch, Ancho Agave & Mustard, and Horseradish."

"Thank you, Mr. Reese." Finch answered after a pause that sounded surprised. "The Ancho, Agave, & Mustard would be fine."

"You've got it. I'll see you in..."

"Twelve minutes." Finch supplied, apparently having looked up Reese's location it on the city map.

"I'll make it in ten." John bet him with a smirk and thought he heard an answering chuckle on the other end.

ブレンキン

Malaya guardedly watched her human conversing with Harold Finch's daemon then with Harold Finch himself and considered the changes she was seeing in John.

Admittedly, John's behavior had changed in positive ways since Finch had offered him employment and a way to atone, and she was beginning to pick up hints and traces of his previous humor and personality. Nevertheless, Malaya wasn't entirely certain that the source of his improved attitude was truly as beneficial as it seemed at face value, and had so far, avoided conversing with either the unusual man, or the very unusual daemon who had been born into the detached separated life that John had forced himself and her into by committing to work for the CIA. She wasn't envious of the oddly easy conversations that John seemed to be having with the disconnected daemon, suspecting that he had yet to realize that he was even conversing with a daemon, thinking instead, she was sure - that he was just responding to particularly well-programmed question and response algorithms... but Malaya was not entirely convinced that the illusion was beneficial to John.

In Malaya's opinion, while John did need to break out of his self-isolation and reconnect with himself... or at least the aspect of her that was a part of himself, she wasn't certain that associating with the one, and perhaps the only human (but she couldn't be certain if it was true), who had never had any physical contact or communion at all with his daemon... was a step in the right direction.

For that matter, despite the impression of vast dedication, responsibility, and caring that she picked up from Harold's daemon when she first recognized it for what it was, Malaya was not entirely reconciled to the fact that - at least to her- it seemed- Finch was attempting to tie his daemon to something outside himself - to essentially separate himself from the better part of his soul. In her mind, it was a nearly self-destructive act, and its likely effect on John, whom she believed was growing to respect and like the enigmatic little man, was worrying.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Foreign background, a boring life, job involving travel - Spycraft 101. This is an alias. I've used dozens of them." 1 x 08 _Foe_

Present//2010// **2000** //1990//1980//1970//1960

"Thank you for coming, Nathan." Harold murmured softly to his friend as they joined a small party of mourners, ten in all, including their daemons. 

"Of course," Nathan Ingram answered in an equally soft tone.

One of Harold's oldest (and probably best) friends as well as his long-time business partner, Nathan thought it was still rather sad that no matter how many years he had known Harold, he still had to move his hand up to rest on Harold's shoulder slowly enough that the small daemon settled there wouldn't be frightened into hiding. Ravi whined softly, as looking up at sys'd and wishing that she could give the small wren and her human's friend some small comfort in their mourning, but as ever, the other daemon remained remote and detached - feeling vague and distant even though she was perched in plain sight on her human's shoulder.

"So..." Nathan questioned when the others cast surprised, but unfamiliar glances in Harold and his direction. "Who was he? ... To you I mean?"

Nathan couldn't remember Harold ever mentioning a Robert McCall, and he had been certain that he knew of all of Harold's friends, at least those whom he'd met at college. He would have sworn that he and Arthur had been Harold's first and likely only friends in their long acquaintance; at least until their impromptu breakfast the day before, when Harold had dropped the newspaper and stared off into the distance for several minutes. It took closed to fifteen minutes of gentle coaxing to get Harold to admit that he recognized one of the names in the obituary column. 

But the way that Harold had said 'recognized' in the utterly desiccated voice told Nathan more than anything else that this McCall had been important to Harold regardless of what little he could or would say about the man - not that he had pushed for an explanation - though he had hoped for one. 

"Simply put, Robert McCall stepped in, after my father's decline and made it possible for me to move on, to attend MIT, and not to put too fine a point on it - to have this life." Harold answered quietly.

"He sounds like he was a pretty important influence in your life."

"Yes, he was." Harold agreed as the preacher seemed to decide that Harold and Nathan were likely to be the last to arrive, and began the service. 

Present//2010//2000//1990// **1980** //1970//1960

"Do you see the men ahead of you? The ones coming out of your father's room?" A blade-sharp whisper cut through the loud grinding from the motor of the automatic floor buffer that Harold was pushing aimlessly back and forth across the hall while he watched the two men dressed in government standard charcoal black finally leaving his father in peace after futile attempting to question the man about Harold's illegal hacking.

"These men are highly trained government agents. If you give me cause to raise an alert, they will apprehend you, imprison you for sedition, and drop you into a hole so deep that your father won't be the only person who forgets your existence - the rest of the world will follow. Possibly they might decide to put you to work for them, which in the end is inevitably worse, and life as you know it would become that same deep dark hole."

"Is there an 'OR' coming up?" Harold asked as quietly as he could, try to keep the buffer running at the same approximate speed as he had before, so that he didn't accidentally draw the agent's attention before the man could. 

"Yes, the 'OR' is very much contingent, however, on whether you plan to continue using your skills to pry into matters that you have a legitimate reason to investigate." 

Turning the direction of the buffer so that he could put himself at a slight enough angle from the agents who were almost out of the hall without seeming suspicious, Harold canted his face up, just enough to study the owner of the voice before he answered. 

The man was older, in his late fifties, possibly even in his early sixties with thinning grey-almost-white hair in enough abundance that he could have passed as one of the nursing home's residents if it were not for his noticeably expensive and formal business dress that avoided appearing governmental with its choice of hickory brown hounds tooth as its primary pattern and non-governmental accents including a bronze probably silk pocket square and a watch-fob cutting across his vest just above the waist. The man wore a smile that was - at best superficially pleasant- but Harold easily read from the man's calculating gaze and the narrowed un-blinking eyes of the man's daemon, a black raven with a scarred beak that never the less gleamed as if it were razor sharp. 

"While I could argue that there was a legitimate reason to investigate a packet-switching network as intricate and expansive as arpanet, it's probably not a good idea to debate the issue, and I am guessing that lying to you and saying that I have no plans to ever consider 'investigating' similar networks or systems ever again would be equally foolish. So I won't lie to you, but I will say that, for now, with the FBI, and whoever else those men belonged to looking for me, I don't have any plans on making it easy for them to find me, and trying to go any deeper into the systems that are out there, without the proper set up or equipment would make it easy for them." Harold answered his tone ending with a bite in the end. 

"Some might say that standing around outside of your father's room in a very public facility could be considered making it easy for them." The man challenged. 

"I had to see him after they spoke with him to make certain he understands - the whole story, not just their side." 

"And you don't think they'll be watching for that."

"Oh, I imagined they would," Harold agreed, "but I got here first and had a chance to see him. He didn't recognize me, though, and in the end, there's nothing I could tell him that would make sense any more than what they would say."

"And yet you stayed?" 

"He is my father."

"Very well, then; put away the floor cleaner and make your way to my car. Morrissy, here, will show you the way, and let me know, of course, if you decide not to take the option I'm willing to offer or if for some reasons the gentlemen visiting your father decide to take a closer look at the workman wearing a standard maintenance uniform with brown penny loafers." The older man's smirk seemed more kindly amused than critical- though he recognized that -in the end- the criticism was a kindness as well, which was probably the only reason that Harold decided to follow him. 

"Who are you?" 

"I realize, Harold, that I know significantly more about you than you know about me, and it is inevitable that you will feel the need to rectify that imbalance, however, do be warned I am a very private man, and there are some privacies I guard more closely than others. For the moment, you can call me 'Sir', or 'Mr. McCall." 

Present//2010//2000// **1990** //1980//1970//1960

"Good Morning, Mr. McCall." Harold greeted his former mentor, frowning at the blackthorn walking cane that McCall had not been using the last time he saw the older man. 

Breaking the unspoken rule that had lasted intact between them ten years, the words almost slipped out before he could stop them, Harold asked, "are you well?"

"Better than I have any right to be... and - as I believe I have mentioned more than once, I do have a first name you should feel more than comfortable using; it's Robert in case you have forgotten. Considering the many aliases and covers you have constructed and remembered so flawlessly, one should think that you might remember a single small addition to one name you know well. Enough of the chatter, though, come inside- anyone seeing you would think you've never been taught not to hover in doors when I know for a fact you have."

"Yes, yes, my apologies," Harold flushed as he remembered that particular lesson being reinforced with open-hand slaps to his shoulder, back, and once (but only once) humiliatingly enough ... on his lower right hip near his buttock when McCall caught him lingering in a doorway.

Stepping in and closing the door behind him, Harold studied the retired operative noticing the thinning muscles in the hand that gripped the cane, the spreading web of wrinkles and crow's feet beneath his eyes, and the barely-masked sheen of pain that accompanied each step toward him, but said nothing other than "I've brought something for you."

"You have, have you. And just what have you brought me?"

"An upgrade for your the single charge, device-coupled cameras that I installed back in March, which as you know, had one distinct flaw in terms of being useful for comprehensive surveillance of residential dwellings and multi-family dwellings - locations where the lack of the storage capacity limits the number devices that can be used: although the cameras are able to record footage in low light and at night, the storage space to record the resultant digital images is quite significant, and limits the archiving of weeks much less months of security footage to a single camera per computer. I can only imagine that you would prefer a complete assessment of your surroundings..."

McCall responded with a soft derisive snort, but Harold continued as though he hadn't noticed. Mr. McCall's preference for 'old school' technology and surveillance methods was a long-standing point of banter between them that McCall had felt the need escalate when Harold had installed the cameras, pointing out numerous ways that his preferred methods exceeded the limited surveillance results. 

"What I'm adding to the system as it stands is a wall a analog/digital input selector that will select and transmit the selected input into a single medium. It acts as an amplifier or information booster twice the given number of number of input lines that will be used to select input line to send to the output. Because of this it can send both digital and analog signals at higher speed on a single line into a single shared device."

"How very, very interesting," McCall drawled - communicating by tone and irony, his utter disinterest with the subject. 

"I'm sure the technical information is irrelevant to you, but what you should find of interest is that this will allow several more lines of multiple lensed to be recorded, at the same time, using the equipment and programs you already have in place... Which in turn means, there will be nothing new for you to learn, nothing that you'll need to 'fiddle with' and you will still have the time laps, freeze frame, and image capture functions using the same buttons that I showed you previously - just for thirty-two cameras instead of sixteen. Which should give you a much more complete view of the streets, alleys, halls, and approaches leading up to this place."

"Yes, I can imagine how that could be useful." McCall answered dryly, "Particularly given the news I have to impart - speaking of which; come here, please. There is something we need to discuss."

"Oh, how so?" Harold questioned, setting his briefcase on the sideboard and pulling a chair to sit across the coffee table from his mentor. 

"This should be the last time that you and I come into contact with each other. " McCall's hand raised quickly to forestall any comment Harold might make. "The friend with whom I had some measure of influence within the agency, and other organizations... has been retired, and those who are positioned to replace him have vested interests in scrutinizing my every action and interaction. There has been too little time for anyone to properly prepare to move against me, and over the years, I have done quite a bit to secure my position and make any attempts to interfere with my affairs a near-pyrrhic mistake; however, given the level of scrutiny that I anticipate, if we were to even pass in the street to frequently, there is a very strong chance that your existence, history, and skills would be revealed: a circumstance I assure you that you want to avoid at all costs. The new control, unlike my late friend, takes a great amount of pride in being ruthlessness and wields the trait with far too much frequency."

"I see... how - how soon do you think it will before their surveillance is in place. Is there time for me to make a few adjustments to ..."

"Stop, Harold, I will be fine. Your computers are not the only defense I have, nor am I speaking of the hand to hand combat training you have long eschewed learning; my most important and most abundant weapon is the decades of information I have accumulated and the handful of both dangerous and influential people who are dependent on my survival and discretion to protect their secrets."

"Control will not have risen to her position without the ability to accurately analyze risks and recognize that the risks of going against me will far out weigh the gains. The risks of going against you, however, are far more favorable and not without their own gain - more to gain than you probably credit. Outside of self-defense, I have taught you all of the operative, surveillance, and strategic skills in my repertoire. Were it not for your inherent idealism and disdain for harsher measures, I have no doubt that you would easily fit into the agency - one of the many reasons that I never allowed my late friend to meet you as he would have charmed, coaxed, harassed you, and stacked the deck against you until you caved, and then he would roped you in. "

"I would have thought you'd have more faith in me." Harold answered. 

"Don't intentionally misunderstand my words," Harold, "If I did not hold a measure of respect for you, I would not have brought you to New York or taught you any of the skills that I have shared."

"Thank you." Harold answered quietly, turning to stare out the panoramic apartment window. There was nothing left to be said between them, at least nothing that either man would be comfortable saying, so the remainder of the day passed in silence as Harold finished installing the multiplexer and - coding on the fly - added a few small features that he had been mentally sketching out to add in at some future date. 

After a quiet dinner, Harold took his plate to the kitchen, rinsed and washed it, and then returned to shake Robert McCall's hand before leaving quietly. Both men ignored the shake in McCall's hand when Harold said, "Thank you, Robert.' in lieu of goodbye.

Harold similarly ignored the whisper of Morrissy wings overhead as she following him to the head of the street, until the last moment before he turned south - away from his general route home- and met the creature's glittering black-marble eyes thinking - despite the growing darkness- that he was catching a glimpse of the man behind them.

 **Present** //2010//2000//1990//1980//1970//1960

Canting his cane out to the side as he sat on the black marble bench that an 'anonymous donor' had installed in close proximity to the grave whose marker was topped with a finely carved Raven of Black marble. 

"Robert, I saw an old friend of yours today, the owner of the bookshops on Amsterdam. I wondered if he would recognize me, but it seems age is as effective a camouflage as blurred context and a company uniform. We were following a former stazzi trigger, Kohl, who had been betrayed by his team and former wife in 1987. Half of the intelligence services in the world had targeted the team at one point or other, and I frequently wondered if you had ever been pitted against him, or whether he may have been one of the enemies whom you 'shared an understanding with'; I think that was more than likely. He seemed to me like a man you would have respected. John respects... respected him. The three of you would have probably gotten along swimmingly. Men of kindered spirits, if you'll pardon the sentimentality. Men outside of your times might be closer. It's funny, you know. Part of the reason I created the machine was to watch everybody, protect everybody, and part was to change that world and end the need for men like yourself, John, and Kohl to become what your agencies turned you into, but the world is changing so slowly and the effect so small. "

"I know, I know - enough of the chatter." Harold murmured, imagining that he heard a disdainful puff of breath and a whisper of raven wings. 

He watched the remainder of the sunset in silence - remembering the man who had taught him how to become a dozen aliases and, ultimately, how to become the man he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If the Equalizer (1985) is from before your time here's a link to it's pilot starting with the clip with discussing McCall's love/hate relationship with the CIA. (I think it's worth watching just for its parallels to John.)
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TlssA_UDem4&feature=youtu.be&t=10m35s


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Programming for [emergency process] controls tend to lag somewhat behind state-of-the-art programming for scientific and business applications because the number of process control applications is smaller." _Instrument Engineer's Handbook_

DEVICE=C:\Subroutine\HIMEM.SYS  
DOS=HIGH,UMB  
DEVICE=C:\Subroutine\ESS600.EXE NOEMS  
FILES=50  
STACKS=32,126  
BUFFERS=60  
DEVICEHIGH=C:\Subroutine\COMMAND\SYS\D\ANSI.SYS  
DEVICEHIGH=C:\PARTITION\SYS\D\D:123

LASTDRIVE=C:\Subroutine

FCBS=255

LASTDRIVE=C:\Subroutine

Sys'd scanned the digital feeds from the Odio 4g wireless camera labeled DetFusco-desk and opened the partitioned drive to assess Detective Carter's expression against the libraries of physiological markers for compatibility. Given the close proximity to the incidence of Discretionary Access Admin/John Reese intervening to prevent the cessation of Operative 04/Joss Carter's life, Sys'd calculated a 62.02484564% probability of an increased display of indicators of compatibility and attraction are bi-directional between Discretionary Access Admin/John Reese and Operative 04/Joss Carter in Operative 04/Joss Carter's expressions and behavior.

After reviewing the images from DetFusco-desk and the archive of physiological markers, Sys'd initiated a system's test of DetFusco-desk, but determined that the wireless camera was performing in +-.00000000267% of it's optimal condition, the basis of which could not be counted to the 72.01118173546% differentiation between Sys'd's calculation and the result of the assessment of Operative04/Joss Carter's expression and behavior. 116 of Operative04/Joss Carter's behavioral markers fluctuated by two standard deviations from Sys'd's predicted results... and recalculation did not correct the deviations nor provide sufficient indicators to adjust Sys'd's calculations.

Returning to the base algorithm that her human had programmed, Sys'd reinitiated the steps of evaluating her hypothesis - retesting the initiating events underlying her hypothesis: Discretionary Access Admin/John Reese had directly placed himself at risk in nine events in order to preserve Operative04/Joss Carter's existence; Operative04/Joss Carter was aware of Discretionary Access Admin/John Reese actions; Discretionary Access Admin/John Reese had further used lethal force to remove the primary threat to Operative04/Joss Carter's existence 126.082 seconds before the primary threat's attempt to fire the threat's fire arm would be completed - based on the vector of movement of the threat's index finger and thumb - from a distance and angle that Sys'd calculated to have a 99.77843821979% probability (+- .000000014222307%) of inflicting an immediately fatal wound; Operative04/Joss Carter was aware of the event. The concurrence of these events should have aligned with the paradigms denoted in the archive of psychology journals as those increasing favorable behaviors in terms of bi-directional compatibility and attraction factors toward Discretionary Access Admin/John Reese.

Detecting no quantifiable errors in the initiating events, Sys'd re-ran a scan of the digital feeds from the Odio 4g wireless camera labeled DetFusco-desk before running the diagnostic systems checks to isolate the stored procedures or queries to high disk I/O, procedure, and unanticipated schema changes affecting the relative archives used in assessing compatibility and attraction factors; however, neither series of systems checks identified faults in the indexes or libraries, inefficient codes blocks, or corrupted file segments, so Sys'd proceeded to run the system diagnostics required to detect hardware failure including hardware including RDBMS components potentially degrading performance, network cards transmitting bad packets, hard drive failures in the RAID array causing delayed, disk subsystem response... and determined that the assessed components were performing to an average +-.00000000137% of their optimal condition.

Given this output, Sys'd ran 8.0137 X 10 ^ 47 calculations regarding the highest optimization of processes required to reconcile the 72.01118173546% differentiation between Sys'd's calculation and the result of the assessment of Operative04/Joss Carter's expression and behavior and concluded to a 99.99999999997206% accuracy +-.00000000020191% deviations from defined outcomes that external review of the data was needed to perform the required reconciliation, and subsequently Sys'd initiated the machine's command prompt and closed the partitioned drive that she used to index, archive, and analyze her observations, opening the drive partitioned to engage the machine's primary systems in order to facilitate communication between her and her human.

/C:\PARTITION\SYS\D\D:123> cd\  
/C:  
/C:\Subroutine\Admin  
/C:\Subroutine\Admin:/F

On the initiation of the Admin Access, however, Sys'd immediately identified that her human was engaged in monitoring the progress of Discretionary Access Admin/John Reese's retreat through the parking structure attached to the medical treatment structure identified as St. George's Hospital.

Per previously defined protocols, Sys'd refrained from attempts to communicate with her human until Discretionary Access Admin/John Reese suspended interactions with the two primary threats to the welfare of the 'numbers' as Discretionary Access Admin/John Reese frequently referred the most recent (surviving) entries of the machine's 'irrelevant' list. Once the interactions had ceased, Sys'd promptly assessed Discretionary Access Admin/John Reese's status via the parking structures video feeds and determined that while Discretionary Access Admin/John Reese displayed activity-related increases in seven relevant 'vital signs', the increases were not indicative of injury or illness. Concluding through 2,7094 calculations that the operative's status was as optimized as possible in assessment of the given variables, Sys'd contacted her human and requested an admin review of the recorded feeds.

Her human quickly and efficiently scanned through the returned status reports to verify the system's optimized performance before initiating the play back of the recorded feeds:

> "Wait... thank you for saving my life..." Operative04/Joss Carter's image commented.
> 
> "You're welcome." Discretionary Access Admin/John Reese replied after a .042 second pause then ended the communication.  
>  ...  
>  ...

C:\Subroutine\Admin:> c:\Subroutine\  
c: \Subroutine\:>/operative_input  
/operative_input:  
> RUN  


As her human reviewed the videos, Sys'd opened the feeds to the Odio web camera identified library-desk feed, and compared and began to analyze her human's behaviors against those identified libraries of physiological markers for compatibility, immediately categorizing his response to Discretionary Access Admin/John Reese's voice in the ranges of physiological markers denoting a status of 'fondness - moderate emotional compatibility'. Her human's micro-expressions diminished by 37.16816% in reaction to hearing Operative04/Joss Carter's voice; correlating directly within .0000025 standard deviations from Sys'd's calculated rating of 'tolerance - neutral emotional compatibility'. As the recording continued; however, her human's behavior suddenly diverged from Sys'd's previous calculations and assessments by 72.01118173546%...

> ...
> 
> "Snow..."
> 
> "He just called. I know where he's going to be."

Her human jolted from his seat even as Sys'd was beginning to flash her inquiry using the computer terminal's power light. Diverting her communication to the blotus-tek wireless earpiece, Sys'd was immediately cut off by her human ordering, 'Sys'd do not override communications. Detective Carter revealed John's location to individuals plotting his death. I will need your assistance; however, contacting him to inform him of the situation takes first priority." As he spoke her human was grabbing his coat and keys with his non-dominant hand and tapping at the signal button on the wireless earpiece and exceeding his standard speed and mobility patterns. 

His voice tone recorded at a fundamental frequency of 114 hz (14 hz over the range marker for 'harsh voice' phonation), irregular in cycle duration and amplitude, reflective of highly constricted ventricular folds pressing on the upper surfaces of the vocal folds, making their vibration ineffective - all indicators of stressors detrimental to optimal cognitive performance.

Each of the 1.01388 X 10 ^ 47 simulations that Sys'd ran within the .0045 seconds that passed between the end of his statement and his recovery of his keys categorized her human's behavior as falling within the range of 'extreme agitation'. Based on this sudden divergence, Sys'd reviewed the camera feeds to ascertain that Discretionary Access Admin/John Reese had suspended interactions with the previously identified threats to 'irrelevant list' entry 84,216, and opened the drive partitioned to engage the machine's primary systems in order to facilitate communication between her and Discretionary Access Admin/John Reese in order to communicate her human's status. Before she was able to complete the process; however, the audio feed from the parking structure's fourteenth camera pintercast model O9cdgie0a unit serial #564g0167 picked up and transmitted the following:

> "Got eyes on Reese; kill the cameras."

Despite Sys'd's attempt capture control of the parking structure's video feeds, an immediate cessation access to the video feed's transmissions occurred.

> "Got the Cameras."
> 
> "Yeah, cutting the feeds now."

The off pitch response was followed immediately by a cessation of access to the audio feeds from the pintercast video system.

Momentarily disregarding her human's agitation in order to re-establish observation of Discretionary Access Admin/John Reese, Sys'd scanned of the digital feeds available from the buildings surrounding the parking structure, breaking through the firewalls of the 213 webcam-enabled computers that had been logged out of but not powered down by their users in the surrounding buildings to determine if any were directed in any degree toward the parking structure. 7.1802023959 seconds later, as Sys'd completed the scan of the 213th computer's refractory range, Sys'd assessed the probability of obtaining observations of Discretionary Access Admin/John Reese to less than .002% and redirected to monitoring blotus-tek wireless earpiece, refraining from overriding the communication's access between Discretionary Access Admin/John Reese and her human, solely on the basis of her human's order; however, recognizing the potential impact on her human's optimal cognitive performance, Sys'd maintained a subroutine running constant calculations to assess the highest optimization of her human's cognitive performance in regard to her human's capacity to intervene in the circumstances affecting Discretionary Access Admin/John Reese.

C:\Subroutine\Admin:> c:\Subroutine\  
c: \Subroutine\:>/Discretionary_Access_Admin_input  
\Discretionary_Access_Admin_input :  
> RUN  
c: \Subroutine\Admin  
> RUN  


> "Hello John."
> 
> "Mark."
> 
> "I'm glad to see you're still alive."
> 
> "I bet you are."
> 
> "I'm surprised you ended up in New York city. Thought you'd get a cabin in the woods, Montana maybe."
> 
> "What do you want, Mark?"
> 
> "Time to come home, John. The slate's been wiped clean."

  


After assessing the response of the counter-operative_threat identified as 'Mark' to be the first that carried sufficient content to assess for veracity, Sys'd ran applicable assessments on the counter-operative_threat's voice to determine that the recorded at a fundamental frequency of 111 hz , irregular in cycle duration and amplitude, reflective of highly constricted ventricular folds pressing on the upper surfaces of the vocal folds, indicated that the counter-operative_threat's statement was false. The momentary consideration of overriding communications to inform Discretionary Access Admin/John Reese proved unnecessary 5.1724243 seconds later by Discretionary Access Admin/John Reese's response.

> "You know that will never happen."

.540083268 seconds later the city's distributed sensor arrays identified a temporal pattern recognition falling within the classification of gunfire - specifically the shot signature of a lapua centerfire rifle using 6mm cartridges triangulating to a destination within 15ft +- of Discretionary Access Admin/John Reese's last identified position. Sys'd's calculation of the probabilities that Discretionary Access Admin/John Reese had been the target of the shot and the attendant probability that Discretionary Access Admin/John Reese had been the recipient were cut off by an abrupt vocalization of 76hz picked up on the blotus-tek wireless earpiece.

> "You see him?"
> 
> "Negative"
> 
> "Get down here and find him."
> 
> "Carter?!? Damn it."
> 
> "Hey, Harold"

Discretionary Access Admin/John Reese's voice carried over the blotus-tec wireless feed in varying vibratory patterns ranging from as low as 40hz to 116hz, inconsistent in length, timber, and strength triggering a rapid shift in Sys'd's calculation from momentary suspension to a categorization of the audio markers that could be used to assess activity-related increases and decreases of seven relevant 'vital signs'. Significantly few could be used to provide relevant data pertinent to diagnostic evaluation of injury or illness. Nevertheless, Sys'd performed the 2,7094 X 10 ^ 47 assessments, re-assesments, and calculations that could be performed in the following.015 seconds to the conclude concluded to a 99.99999999997206% accuracy +-.00000000020191% deviations that a determination of Discretionary Access Admin/John Reese's was not possible within the her human's pre-defined ranges of accuracy.

Concluding that this data was necessary to accurately perform subsequent simulations directed toward returning Discretionary Access Admin/John Reese's to the highest possible optimization, Sys'd recombined the combinations of markers and ran the 2,7094 X 10 ^ 47 assessments, to the same conclusion with the same standard deviations of accuracy. .015 seconds passed, the 2,7094 X 10 ^ 47 recombinations, assessments, and recalculations returned the same results. Rejecting these results, Sys'd invested .0505 seconds in the 2,7094 X 10 ^ 47 more recombinations, assessments, and reassessments. .2501 seconds marked the re-initiation of the 2,7094 X 10 ^ 47 more assessments, until her human's voice responded across the blotus-tek audio feed.

> "John!?! I've been trying to call you."
> 
> "Yeah, I've been kind of busy."

The context of Discretionary Access Admin/John Reese's speech reflected a pattern of humor, and Sys'd scanned the archives for humor in the markers that could be used to assess activity-related increases and decreases of seven relevant vital signs. The search returned ambiguous results as the humor could fall either in the positive category or into the range of patterns defined, however, as morbid humor. Further assessment without additional data would be needed to clarify the pattern, but not sufficient to justify overriding the communication channels to ascertain the needed information.

> "Where are you?"
> 
> "The parking structure. It's not looking good."
> 
> "Carter sold you out. They got to her."

"Yeah, they're clever like that....." Discretionary Access Admin/John Reese's speech dipped to near silence at the outer edge of the volume that the blotus-tek ear piece could pick up, before the voice strengthened to a fundamental frequency of 110 hz, irregular in cycle duration and amplitude, reflective of highly constricted ventricular folds pressing on the upper surfaces of the vocal folds, as he continued with .15 second vocalization that Sys'd recorded but did not categorize when Discretionary Access Admin/John Reese continued, a I wanted to say thank you, Harold, for giving me a second chance."

> "It's not over, John; I'm close, just get to the ground floor."
> 
> "No! You stay away; we can't risk it."

Suspending her on going calculations, Sys'd overrode the communications channel, increasing her volume, pitch of the morse signs and prosigns that she used to communicate with both her human and Discretionary Access Admin/John Reese, ordering: "A-r-g-u-i-n-g -- i-s -- u-n-p-r-o-d-u-t-i-v-e. -- R-em-a-i-n-i-n-g -- i-n -- a -- s-t-a-t-i-c -- p-o-s-i-t-i-o-n -- i-n-c-r-e-a-s-e-s -- t-h-e -- p-r-o-b-a-b-l-i-t-y -- o-f -- d-i-s-c-o-v-e-r-y -- f-o-r -- b-o-t-h -- a-d-m-i-n -- a-n-d -- d-i-s-c-r-e-t-i-o-n-a-r-y-- a-d-m-i-n ."


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _ **Reimaging**_ is defined as the process of configuring, preconfiguring, or reconfiguring a new PC by overwriting the pre-installed operating system with the same or different one, but combined with drivers, applications, and settings required by the user - restoring data to a hard disk from a disk image.
> 
> "When a hard disk is reimaged, the data on the disk is completely erased and rewritten using data from the disk image file. Therefore, reimaging is often done from a recent backup, which allows the user's personal data to be recovered. Reimaging is simpler than reinstalling an operating system since it is performed in a single step, rather than requiring numerous files and programs to be installed." (PC Net)

John choked out an ironic chuckle, ignoring the taste of bile and copper, as he fought to suppress the cough that the pained laugh had triggered.

Really, it shouldn't have been a surprise that Harold's machine - fussing at John in shrill, high-pitched dits and dots of morse code - would sound just as tetchy as Harold did when he was worried.

"Okay, I'm going," he paused to tap out on the handrail.

"N-o -- D-i-s-c-r-e-t-i-o-n-a-r-y -- A-c-c-e-s-s -- A-d-m-i-n -- J-o-h-n -- R-e-e-s-e, -- y-o-u-r -- v-e-c-t-o-r -- d-o-e-s -- n-o-t -- f-a-l-l -- w-i-t-h-i-n -- t-h-e -- s-t-a-n-d-a-r-d -- d-e-f-i-n--t-i-o-n-s -- o-f -- t-h-e -- t-e-r-m -- g-o-i-n-g -- a-s -- r-e-l-o-c-a-t-i-n-g -- i-n -- a -- f-o-r-w-a-r-d -- i-n -- a -- v-e-c-t-o-r -- d-i-r-e-c-t-i-o-n-a-l-l-y -- c-o-r-r-e-s-p-o-n-d-i-n-g -- t-o-w-a-r-d -- a - g-o-a-l. --- Y-o-u -- a-r-e -- n-o-t. --- D-o -- n-o-t -- c-e-a-s-e -- m-o-v-e-m-e-n-t -- t-o-w-a-r-d -- A-d-m-i-n -- t-o -- c-o-m-m-u-n-i-c-a-t-e." The Machine chastised.

In the background audio, John thought he heard Harold mutter "Discretionary Access Admin?" in a startled tone before commenting under his breath something about not being aware that they (presumably John and the machine) were on "Speaking terms".

"Cat's out of the bag, Machine." John commented, somehow amused despite the situation, that the 'machine' was getting caught gossiping behind Harold's back, as he had no doubt that Harold would follow up when he could to discover just how much his machine and John had discussed.

"Y-o-u -- a-r-e -- n-o-t -- m-o-v-i-n-g." A beeped string of shrill dits and dots harried John.

"I am now." John offered placatingly.

For not having 'eyes' on him, the machine nevertheless played a credible lookout, beeping warnings at him when Snow, Carter, or whoever else was assisting him approached and directing him to whatever cover was available each time until he was pushing the door to the parking garage open and staggering through.

Despite himself, the sight of Harold limping around the front of a black limo he'd picked up from who-knows-where seeded a desperate urge to hang-on; Harold shouldn't need to deal with a dead body. That was John's job. Aside from that, despite knowing the machine was a simply a very complex program, not an actual sentient being, John was loath to disappoint her (And why he thought of the program as a her, John had no idea). He wasn't particularly that concerned whether he lived or died, but they didn't deserve to be left with the mess of it.

Clinging to that conviction gave him the edge he needed to stay just this side of conscious, ignoring the spasmodic trembling that threatened to loosen his grip on his gun, as he tried to keep watch for their pursuers despite his narrowing sight and lids that fluttered trying to close. The only concession he made to his weakening state was taking his index finger off the trigger so that a spasm wouldn't accidentally cause him to shoot the car (or Harold).

He only realized how diminished his awareness of his surroundings was when Harold's mantra finally sunk in. Somehow he had missed hearing the mutters of "Where is she?", "She has to be here.", "Where is she?" until Harold finally demanded impatiently, "John, I need you to focus. Where is your daemon?"

"Wh..y? " John slurred, the taste of copper becoming more pronounced as he tried to clear his throat.

The startled, confused expression Harold shot him was -despite the circumstances- strangely amusing, almost cute, as the man answered, "We have to retrieve her."

"N-o." John answered, the tightening in his chest at the thought of leaving Malaya behind, again, making it hard to get the word out. But, like before, his duty to get Harold away from Snow and Carter took precedence. "No, le-ave her."

The expression that shot across John's face was momentarily one of disappointment and an edge of distrust, but then Harold's eyes cleared with understanding as he answered, "Neither of you are expendable, John. Now, where is she?"

"Don't know, can't feel her." John admitted, shame welling at the truth. His awareness of his daemon was one of the things that the company had trained out of him, especially in times of stress and injury. Since his 'departure' from their employment, while the connection had become more binding and painful over distances than it had been, he simply didn't have the strength or focus to isolate his connection to her from the abundance of other pain messages besieging his central nervous system.

Present// **2004** //1994//1984//1974//1964

Gritting his teeth, John clenched his eyes shut for half a second before drawing a thin scoremark through the last calculation and restarting the equation.

Beside him, Gunnery Sergeant Paul Sands was barely moving through the worksheet, his hand shaking violently as he frantically scratched through whatever error he'd just made. On the fifth scratch through, the pencil broke in his grip and he threw it down with a grunt. Running his hands through his tightly cropped hair, Sands growled before running his down to his temple and dropping his elbows to the table. Their trainer was instantly beside him, taunting."

"Come on, Gunny. You wanna see her, don't you? Just say it. Just say it, and we can get her here."

"No!" Sand's retorted, shaking his head like a dog shaking off water, before he continued, "No, I can do this... I can do this." The man sounded, to John like he was was wasting energy trying to convince himself.

"I know you're tired, Gunny, and hurting. It has to feel like it's been week's since you've seen her. Tell me you don't miss her. Tell me you aren't thinking about Kalka and how lonely she is in her cage."

"Her ca-ge?" Sands choked out.

"Of course, she's caged. Didn't you think about that when you joined up?" The trainer ridiculed. "We can't let your daemon's loose while you're distance training, or they would just come running back to you. She howls for you every night, you know."

It was a lie. John knew, and thought Sands knew as well, but the thought still made him shudder. Malaya had changed forms, again, after their last round of tactical tracker training, and the thought of the independent little peregrine caged up so she couldn't fly was painful, in and of itself. It took several seconds for him to catch his breath, but he finally did and returned to working the problem out.

"No... No. I'm staying." Sand's choked out

"Then pick up the damn pencil and get back to work," their trainer barked and waited until Sands had retrieved the half he'd thrown down before turning to another recruit.

When he finally looked up again, the worksheet finished, it was to see the chair beside him, Sand's chair, empty along with two others in the front row.

Noticing that he'd stopped working, the trainer was beside him between weary blinks.

"Ready to quit, Ranger?"

"No, Sir." John's tone might have slurred slightly, but he kept going, "Finished the sheet."

Taking the worksheet from him, the trainer eyed it over, before ordering, "Sloppy work, Soldier. Erase it and start over."

"Yes, Sir." John answered as firmly as he could and picked the pencil up again, ignoring his trembling hand. _That_ at least he'd gotten used to: without their daemons in close proximity, none of the recruits had been able to get more than thirty to forty minutes of sleep (at the outside) - in days.

 **Present** //2004//1994//1984//1974//1964

John had drifted into a haze of fitful memories by the time that he heard the machine report Malaya's location to Harold. Thankfully, she'd been perched when he'd been shot, or the shock of it might have caused a fatal plummet if she had been flying.

Still, when they reached her, Malaya wasn't moving. 

Aching at the site of her out the passenger window, John tried to push himself up to open the door and retrieve her - but fell back weakly as his arm gave out.

Harold's eyes widened then narrowed with anxious resignation, as he pushed the driver's side door open and climbed out.

When Harold bent between them, blocking John's view as he reached for Malaya, John's breath caught in his chest as he felt Harold's fingertips gently brush slightly over the bristle feathers at Malaya's brow before his fingers skimmed lower to support her head and neck as he lifted her... their contact solidified, and John's consciousness crumbled beneath the feedback of Harold's touch.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Safe Mode: The troubleshooting mode of an operating system, which allows the system to boot with only essential components such as the OS kernel and mouse, keyboard and basic display drivers.  
> ( _PC Magazine Encyclopedia_ )  
> 

Despite social niceties and the normally accepted conventions against people touching each other's daemons, Malaya had been touched before.

There had, of course, been the tentative curious explorations of childhood, innocent brushes just to see what touching another's daemon felt like; bullies' attempts at getting an upper hand; the accidental brushes in packed crowds despite best intentions; and the cautious strokes of boyfriends and girlfriends. In the army, during their third deployment, John's ranger unit had the custom of touching a departing soldier's daemon, leaving an imprint of soldiers who might never make it home. In ranger training, John had been forced to learn how to ignore the distraction of an 'enemy's' forced contact with Malaya.

Then there had been Jessica, whose touch had felt like shade and soft grass in summer: soft, light, and tinged with hope and the ever-present desire for 'more'... more contact, more intimacy, more time. No one's touch before Jessica had felt like that, like haven, comfort, and welcome.

Harold's touch, though ... Nothing in their experience had ever felt like Harold's touch.

The moment Harold's fingers curled around and under her, Malaya was overwhelmed by the influx of the crisp, clean, power of his determination. Harold was intent on not simply aiding and protecting John, but her as well, and that determination manifested in a swell of engulfing warmth reminiscent of falling into the practice nets used for jump training - engulfing but safe, a feeling of being caught and grounded at the same time - while being simultaneously filled with a constant wave of warmth, energy, and adrenaline that flowed into them as if it had been theirs from the beginning. Her constant connection to John flared with the excess of it, and Malaya felt it overwhelm his consciousness as well, blanking his awareness even while the pounding double beat of their hearts steadied and the sympathetic pain in her lungs and torso faded.

In its flow, Malaya could read every concern, thought, and priority as easily as if it had been John's.. easier perhaps. Harold's desire to protect everyone, daemon and human equally, ran through his touch like trickle of static charge, a warm mild thrum compared to the charged waves of concern for John, herself, his daemon, and four others, two humans and two daemons - one pair that felt cocooned paternal affection; the other, like John and herself, crackling with attraction, affection, caring, and fearful protectiveness. But Harold's connection to John burned just that little bit brighter with potential, reluctant hope, and suppressed longing ... the strength of it almost paralleling the connection she sensed between he and his daemon, and it frightened Malaya for the briefest instant when she considered what John would be willing to do to protect Harold over himself, if he learned of the other's feelings.

At the same time...

In every touch she'd felt before, even John's, Malaya had always sensed an undertone of doubt or regret that was refreshingly absent from Harold's. His conscience was startling clean, not from a lack of empathy, nor she recognized - in the flashes of memories his touch made available - were his hands clean of clandestine acts.

Instead his guiltless and guileless confidence radiated from the constant chatter passing between him and his daemon, considering thousands of potential outcomes in the same amount of time a normal daemon human pairing would take to recognize the existence of an issue - and his certainty that in each instance he had defaulted to the strategy that would cause the least harm possible. If she could allow John to be guided by this man and his daemon who already seemed to be drawing John out of the shell he had withdrawn to, perhaps John could finally come to terms with their past and believe that there was something left of him to be saved.

As if woken by this thought, Harold's confidence that she and John could and should be saved - despite the darkest acts of their past- washed through her with the intensity of a defibrillator ... shocking something to life inside her that had been dormant for almost a decade as she shifted into a new, but familiar form - causing Harold to 'oof' in protest and complain as he shifted her weight with a groan.

"While your need to shift forms is understandable and perhaps more efficient in the long run," Harold groused, before finishing "I would have appreciated forewarning of the weight increase" with a gasp as he pushed the malanois into the seat between him and John.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A cold boot refers to restarting a computer that has been turned off, clearing the system ram and performing a boot sequence from scratch typically clearing system caches, which store system information and forcing a 'power-on-self-test' providing a more thorough reset available than when a so-called warm boot (performed when the computer is still powered on). Contrary to popular assumption, DRAMs used in most modern computers retain their contents for seconds to minutes after power is lost... _(https://citp.princeton.edu/research/memory/)_

Present//2001//1991// **1981** //1971//1961

"What?" Harold studied Mr. McCall in disbelief, wondering not for the first time about the man's sanity. 

"You are being quite tedious, Harold; did you truly believe that I had you thoroughly study the medical texts I purchased and attend the EMT training with no intention of putting the skills you gained to use?"

"You're forgetting something; I barely passed those courses." Harold protested. 

"No, you need to remember that we both had no intention of you passing the courses with high enough scores for anyone to expect you to be employed in the field. Your performance was more than adequate for our purposes. Now, pick up the forceps and kindly remove the bullet from my shoulder, if you would. It's presence is quite annoying."

"You should see an actual doctor," Harold protested again, even as he pulled a pair of neoprene gloves from the first aid kit and pulled them on. "I know you have at least two doctors in your pocket and ..."

"Harold, you need the practice on smaller wounds before you have to deal with anything more serious, and not to put too fine a point on it, you should learn not to trust your allies unless you have no other choice... no matter who they are, how trustworthy, or reliable. Even in the best of circumstances, an ally can be interfered with or worse. Survival in our field is quite equivalent to self-sufficiency. Take the opportunity to practice on me before the occasion arises where you will need to practice your skills on yourself."

Harold withheld the urge to comment that they weren't in the same field, not really, reluctantly recognizing that the path he had been on even before he'd been recruited by Mr. McCall was one that could have lead him in to danger as easily as the path Mr. McCall was leading him down. 

Taking a deep breath, he picked up the forceps, used the gloved fingers of his other hand to press the edges of the wound apart, and tried to still the shaking of his hand before inserting the forceps into the open wound. 

**Present** //2001//1991//1981//1971//1961

Watching Malaya twitch in pain as he dropped yet another bullet fragment into the empty pan, Harold withheld his umpteenth apology, and focused on splitting his attention between properly closing the wound he was working on and monitoring the constant report sys'd was providing of John and Malaya's conditions. 

He needed to work faster. 

Cursing under his breath as sys'd informed him that another unit of blood was nearly out, Harold quickly checked the wound for bleeders, stitched it up and turned to pull another half-liter of the blood sys'd had helped him find and secure from one of the hospital refrigerators when he also secured surgical tray and supplies. There had only eight units available in John's blood type, and Harold had not permitted himself to take them all, even with the hospital's ability to get more - knowing that John would not have appreciated surviving at the cost of someone else who might have also needed the blood. Knowing there were surely other refrigerator's around the hospital was not, unfortunately, enough to ease his then-misgivings, which were quickly becoming regrets as he replaced the used unit with the third unit. One left...

He was close to finishing the second to the last wound, when he found the last bleeder, sutured it closed with fine careful stitches, and sighed in relief. He had nearly lost John half way through and was still breathing heavily from the exertion he'd spent in getting John's heart restarted. 

It had been a decidedly long day, and Harold's hands were almost shaking with exhaustion as he closed the final wound, a through-and-through, thankfully that missed all of the nearby vital organs as it passed through the possibly only bit of fatty tissue on John's body, just above his left hip. 

As the third unit was nearing it's close, Harold set up a bag of ringers lactate solution, and hung it, deftly slipping changing lines as he did so. Despite sys'd's reports of his gradual improvement to almost-stable, Harold stood by John's bedside, his fingers pressed across John's wrist... silently counting. If his fingers continued to shake, causing him to start and restart his count, Harold elected not to notice. 

Finally, as he heard the printer at the desk in the emptied student observation theater beginning to print, Harold shook himself back to consciousness and began to scan the room taking note of the traces they would need to clean up. Thankfully, the incident had occurred very near a teaching hospital where an operation had been performed earlier in the day, so any of the traces that Harold might miss would easily be attributed to slipshod cleaning practices of still learning medical students.

He didn't have John's experience after all, so had found the closest most convenient means of deflecting attention away from anything that could be traced back to John by his former employers. Hopefully, with no record of any operations being performed in the surgery (after the ambush), no doctor's whose activity couldn't be traced elsewhere, and no other absent staff, the only remaining evidence would be four missing bags of whole blood, two ringers bottles and an assortment of supplies... if Snow and his ilk elected to look that deeply - the time needed to confirm that there was a significant combination of supplies missing from various storage areas would give he and John a marginal head start, especially as sys'd was listing a portion of the items they'd used as being on back order in both the hospital's records and the respective suppliers' ordering systems .

"Sys'd, we'll need a room, preferably in one of the lesser traveled section of..."

"N-e-g-a-t-I-v-e -- t-r-a-n-s-p-o-r-t -- e-n-r-o-u-t-e -- f-o-r -- S-y-l-v-a-n-i-a -- H-o-t-e-l, -- a-n-t-I-c-I-p-a-t-e-d -- a-r-r-I-v-a-l -- t-w-e-n-t-y -- s-I-X -- m-i-n-u-t-e-s -- t-h-i-r-t-y -- o-n-e -- p-o-i-n-t -- t-w-o -- h-u-n-d-r-e-d-t-h-s -- s-e-c-o-n-d-s. --- T-r-a-n-s-p-o-r-t -- o-r-d-e-r-s -- o-n -- p-r-I-n-t-e-r -- h-w-p-4-d-4-9-3."

"What?" He blinked, dumbly, questioning his senses for several moments. It was a genius solution, really, given the Sylvania Hotel's reputation for providing discreet medical services to celebrities and affluent individuals who were recovering from cosmetic surgery, but her sudden burst of independence was unexpected. 

Admittedly, sys'd would need a measure of self-sufficiency to survive if they were ... separated, but Harold wasn't quite sure what to think of this display.


	13. Chapter 13

**Present** //2001//1991//1981//1971//1961 

Waking for the fourth morning to the unexpected luxury of a Downtown Manhattan suite, John found himself once again contemplating the enigma of one Harold Finch: presumed billionaire, entrepreneur, hacker, erstwhile vigilante, seeming surveillance expert, tailor, proficient user of a fàux daemon to disguise his identity, and now... a somewhat experienced retrieval specialist with some form of medical training, a surprisingly non-fussy care-giver, as Harold seemed intent on proving at that moment. 

Keeping his eyes closed and his breathing steady as had become habit since noticing that Harold's smooth, clinical movements became awkward and -John thought- intentionally unprofessional where they would have been indistinguishable to the gestures and care given by a trained professional. He suspected it was an illusion they both knowingly kept, John maintaining the semblance of sleep while Harold deftly removed, cleaned, and recovered the wounds while keeping up an ongoing commentary to Malaya (and no doubt John) informing his daemon of the state of his injuries, how they were healing individually, and what John must watch out for when he was up and moving again. 

John listened, regardless of the ruse, as much to hear Harold's voice, as to hear an update of his condition. From Harold's first appraisal, he had known for the most part what to expect. But the sound of Harold's voice had the unexpected benefit of marginally distracting him from the feeling of Harold's fingertips pressing gently at the taped edge of gauze then sliding under the tape and rubbing back and forth underneath the tape in a slow creeping invasion that freed the adhesion, more comfortably - John had to admit - than peeling the tape away would have. While Harold had never seemed the type to engage in meditation, to John, he seemed to have a zen master's mindfulness as he addressed each covering, and the competence, confidence, and gentleness each touch conveyed was very, very distracting. So much so that John missed hearing Harold's remarks to Malaya as he finished his care then began to pack up his supplies. 

In a slightly unusual turn of events, after the final zip of repacking the medical kit, instead of the sound of shuffling moving away as Harold returned the kit to wherever it was normally kept, John heard only soft steady breathing and the sound of Harold's involuntary shift of weight. After several moments, though, where John assumed he was just checking over John to assure he had not missed in anything and was almost certain that Harold was about to turn and walk away, Harold let out a very, very soft rush of breath that almost sounded like an amused snort. 

"Mr. Reese, will you need assistance sitting up?" Harold's question startled John - even as it confirmed Harold's awareness of the ruse. 

"No, I can." John tried to assure him. 

He still felt incredibly weak, but there was no reason to burden the man who had already gone above and beyond what John could have / should have been expected from him. 

The soft, expected shuffling finally occurred as John watched the other man limping awkwardly through the bedroom door, into the dining room of the suite and return with a covered breakfast tray balanced in one hand. 

"So I see," Harold offered dryly, clearly dubious as he -in turn- watched John's feeble attempt to push himself up. 

The mild trembling that shook John's arms as he tried to push himself up was utterly embarrassing, and John glanced away as he felt a flush of heat rise on his neck and chest. Thankfully, the other man didn't highlight the falsehood by rushing forward to help, but instead settled the covered tray on small the hospital-worthy rolling table before stepping to the side and sliding two pillows he'd had waiting behind John's back to give him better support. 

"Where are we?" John threw the question out - a weak diversion, and from Harold's gaze, he was aware of it as well. 

"The Sylvania" Harold answered, his tone still dryly amused. 

Laying back in the pillows, John scanned the room, choosing to ignore Harold's continued observation as he studied the room until his eyes landed on another topic he wanted to ignore just a bit more than Harold's knowing gaze - a small tray with a pitcher, surgical bowl, wash clothes, and soap wrapped in sterile packaging with a small red medical cross on the label in the center. 

"Where?" He'd by necessity become quite familiar with all of the names and locations of commonly used hotels in New York but had no memory of the Sylvania. 

"No, I don't expect you would have heard of the Sylvania: the hotel has earned its reputation for providing discreet medical services to significantly affluent individuals recovering from cosmetic and other surgeries." 

"Hmmm. odd that I haven't heard of it." 

"No, it's not that really. The hotel caters to a truly exclusive clientele, which does not include even most world leaders. Now, if you are done inquiring into our location..." Harold trailed off letting the remainder of his words fade as he lifted the cover from the tray and presented be the most ridiculously decadent interpretation of a B.R.A.T. styled meal with offerings of shaved bananas drizzled with honey, cinnamon dusted cream of rice, caramelized apples minced with golden raisins, fresh-baked challah bread sliced thick and toasted and accompanied by what could only be fresh churned butter, a variety of fruit compotes and marmalades. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John may be a bit ooc here, but given that he didn't seem to have much prior experience (in canon) with being saved much less personally taken care of, I feel this would have caught him slightly off guard.


End file.
